


Semi Charmed Lives

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Coercion, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Lies damn lies and shoebills, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Penis In Vagina Sex, Public Blow Jobs, These relationships are trash fires, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 69
Words: 58,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: The Exarch in his lonely TowerThe Ascian in his shadows grimThe Warrior caught in Fate's cruel stringsTangled, trembling, beloved, betrayedHow shall he win free?**This fic was inspired by, and is an elaboration of, a fill done for Final Fantasy Write 2020and is in part dedicated to the Book Club for all their support!
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 114
Kudos: 71





	1. The Exarch in His Tower

**The Tower dreamed.**

Mayfly mortals skimmed past it, thousands of little lives flowing through and over and around, while the Tower endured. The Tower was not quite sentient, but it was very much alive, for all that it did not move, or speak. It was a made thing, a construct of the greatest minds of its people; it knew this, down to its least molecule. It was aware, it could react if need arose, it answered to the hand of its Master, and above all, it fulfilled its Purpose.

To consume, in order to sustain.

It did not seek out that which it stored; it had never been meant to hunt its “food.” No, it was content to simply soak up the available energy. Sunlight, moonlight, starlight, all of them would suffice; or as in its current space, it could make do with pure Light.

The Tower did not have thoughts in the way mortals had thoughts. Its thoughts were the long, slow ruminations of mineral matrices; it sang the songs of mountains to itself in the depths. It barely noticed the coming and going of flesh beings, but it was not totally oblivious to them. And one particular being, of course, commanded its attention.

Its Master was quiet. Above the chiming veil of Light in the sky, it was night, and the Master lay in his silken nest. His body shared much of its essence with the Tower now, and so he did not require sleep, though he could sleep if he wished it. Tonight, he drifted, dreaming the way the Tower dreamed, his thoughts diffusing through the crystal that surrounded him.

A woman's face, a face that summoned up an ache in the Master, a tension like a fault line. He sought this face, this person, this beloved. He feared to find her, feared that the finding would shake him apart at his very foundations.

The Tower whispered comfort.

It would not allow such a fracture. He would be strong enough for whatever came. That was, after all, part of the Tower's purpose.

To consume, in order to sustain.

Though comforted, its Master still ached – this ache, the Tower could not understand or soothe. The word rang through its matrices and interstices, a question with no answer.

**What is loneliness?**

** **

The Exarch did not sleep. But he dreamed.

So many attempts now. So many times, drained to the dregs for no result at all. Four times, now, attempts that should have been successes, transmuted to bitter failure once more. Five very angry people, several very uncomfortable confrontations, and all of them had stormed away in the end. Yet, the one person whose presence he needed so badly here on the First remained out of reach.

Frustrating. Infuriating. Humiliating.

Perhaps this next attempt – an attempt at pure communication, rather than a full Calling – would bear fruit as young Alphinaud's theories indicated. Surely she would listen, if he appealed to her directly. She had ever been the first to offer aid to those in dire need...

She would not suspect his lie, not until it was far too late.

He knew she would never forgive him, once she knew the truth.

But he had sacrificed everything once before. He was willing to do it again.

For the sake of two worlds.

For _her_ sake.

He dreamed of her face, and suffered the ache of loneliness in silence. He had endured a hundred years of this pain. He could endure one year more.


	2. Who Are You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Emet Selch

The Crystal Tower.

Of course he recognized it, pinnacle of Allagan technology as it was. He had not directly meddled with its construction, but he had been in the Tower a few times, visiting various individuals. The blue spires were tantalizingly familiar, and yet mysterious...like a waiting bride.

Curiosity stirred his blood. _This artifact of the Source should not exist here, on the First...how did it arrive here? When?_

He approached it, and discovered an odd city had grown up around the spire. In places, it seemed like the Tower had literally sprouted, budding off lesser spires and crystalline domes like fantastical bubbles. Other areas were built of brick and wrought iron, yet their lines and curves echoed the soaring spire that loomed over all.

He strode among them, unseen, following a hint of...something almost like a scent. A whiff of power, a power he did not know, and a personality unlike any other he had encountered.

“Very good. Once again, thank you for your hard work.”

“As always, it is our pleasure, Exarch. Good day.”

“Until next week.”

_Exarch? What sort of title is that?_

The voice that had spoken, however, caught his interest far more than the odd epithet. A smooth, controlled voice...if a tiger could be a gentleman, then he might sound thus. An almost predatory purr beneath the polite phrases; a razor sharp refinement in his elocution, worthy of any Allagan noble. Perhaps even worthy of an Emperor...

 _How very intriguing_.

A figure stepped out into the open, exiting whatever workshop Emet-Selch faced. Draped in robes, a hood obscuring his features, only his lips were clearly visible. For one instant, the Ascian found his attention focused on those lips – far too kissable, they were. It had been long decades since he had felt the primitive surge of lust. _Hmm... Interest atop intrigue_.

That heady scent assailed his senses, and he knew that here was the source of the power he had detected.

The figure paused, head turning. _Oho! He can see me_.

“Exarch, sir? A moment, if you would?”

The Mystel bowed deeply, and the figure – the Exarch – nodded. “Certainly,” he answered, in that tiger's voice of his. “How may I be of help?”

The Exarch walked past Emet-Selch, and light glinted, drawing the Ascian's eye to the Exarch's left hand.

Blue crystal in place of flesh, veined with gold instead of blood; crystal soaked in the Tower's ineffable power.

Emet-Selch trailed after the Exarch, silent and fascinated.

Another obstacle to his plans, a new wrinkle that he would surely have to deal with, one more tiresome attempt to derail the path he had set this star upon.

And just possibly...something to finally end his boredom.


	3. Bright Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Exarch

At length, the Exarch finished his inspections and meetings, and made his way back to the Tower proper. His “shadow” followed, silently. It was obvious that no one else could see him. Surely someone would have commented on the stranger, in his dark, elaborate robes, with his golden eyes, his arrogant expression. Even if none here on the First would recognize Solus zos Galvus.

Therefore...this was no ordinary stranger.

An aura, a scent, seemed to cling to the man, something akin to the aftermath of a good bonfire. Ashes and smoke, and that odd essence of “wood,” as if the consumed trees had left ghosts of themselves on the air. Curious.

Even as the Exarch noted this, the dark stranger set foot on the Tower proper, following him inside.

And the Tower _hummed_.

The resonances shivered through his senses, through his body, like a delicate chime that only he could perceive. This man could not be anything less than an Ascian; one that had had dealings with Allag and the Tower in the past. For the Crystal Tower had a certain sentience, and a memory...

And it _remembered_ this dark visitor.

He entered his Ocular, and waited for the doors to close before he spoke without turning around.

“Hello, my most _unusual_ guest.”

He turned to face his visitor.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, if I might ask?”

The Ascian smirked. “Curiosity. You and your Tower interest me.”

His voice sent strange shivers along the Exarch's spine, and he sternly shoved the feeling down, instead keeping his visage and his tone even.

“Do we, now? One wonders if it is desirable to attract an Ascian's interest.”

The stranger chuckled. “Astute as well as capable of civilized conversation. What a delight.” He bowed slightly. “You may address me as Emet-Selch. Do not be concerned as to my being an Ascian. I do not plan to harm you.”

“How reassuring.” The Exarch's tone was as dry as the stones of Mord Souq. “What precisely interests you about the Crystarium?”

“Oh, much and more,” Emet-Selch purred. “An Allagan artifact such as this – so very out of place! So vibrant with life that also should not exist where it does. How and why this city came to be must be quite a fascinating tale.” He stepped closer, his golden eyes hooded. “No less fascinating than its master, I would imagine.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You must be quite the extraordinary individual, to hold sway over all these people as you do.”

He smiled, a smile like a caress of silk across the skin. “Or perhaps I ought not to be so surprised by such traits in one who bears the blood of royalty.”

The Exarch eased back half a pace. “I am but a humble scholar,” he smiled. “I may have gleaned some scraps of knowledge here and there, but I am no Paragon.”

“Oh,” Emet-Selch's eyes smoldered as he moved closer still. “Be anything but humble, Exarch.” He was within arm's reach, now. “Humility is so very dull.”

The Exarch was silent for a moment, abruptly aware that his body was reacting intensely to the man before him. He could smell him – not his aether, but his body, now – and it was most distracting. A a scent of incense and ambergris, a hint of myrrh...it made him think of darkened rooms and forbidden pleasures. A delirious desire stirred in his belly, and he could not force it away.

As he wrestled with himself, Emet-Selch reached out, and slipped the Exarch's hood back, off his head, revealing his face.

Ruby eyes wide, he stared at the Ascian, unsettled by that aurum gaze so closely focused on his own.

“Come no closer,” he said, and cursed the tremor in his voice.


	4. This Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch's lips curved in a lazy smile. The face beneath the hood was thoroughly charming: hair nearly as red as the slitted eyes, red-furred ears, pale skin graced with a scatter of freckles, and that so-delectable mouth... The Exarch's bottom lip quivered ever so slightly before he spoke.

The shiver in his voice fully ignited Emet-Selch's lust.

He stepped closer, _closer_ , crowding the other man's space. The Exarch retreated, but within only a handful of steps, his back was against the wall, and Emet-Selch placed one hand on the wall just above and to the side of the smaller man's head. Red-furred ears flattened, and the Exarch bared his teeth, just a little.

“You are a most brash visitor,” he growled. “And quite rude.”

But, even as he said it, his tongue darted out and he licked his lips. The sight broke Emet-Selch's self control.

“I've been called far worse things than _rude_.”

The Ascian leaned in and slanted his mouth over the Exarch's in a searing kiss.

The Exarch's ornate staff clattered to the floor as his hands flattened against Emet-Selch's chest. But even as he opened his mouth to protest, the Ascian's tongue _invaded_.

Ruby eyes widened – then fluttered. Dark aether skittered across bright, even as the Ascian's hot tongue stroked in and out of his mouth. Desire flared, aether rising between the two of them, clashing, tangling. The Exarch moaned softly, and rather than pushing Emet-Selch away, his hands tightened in the rich robes and pulled him closer.

Emet-Selch groaned in answer, and slipped one gloved hand behind the Exarch's head, deepening the kiss. His other hand curled at the smaller man's waist.


	5. Sweet Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Exarch

It had been so long, so very long, since anyone had touched him like this. He had survived without it, subsisted on the memories of past lovers, and he had told himself he was fine.

Once again he had lied.

He did not need sleep. He could even, for a short time, get away with not eating, drawing on the Tower's energy to sustain his body.

The Tower could not fill this need.

This need that screamed through him and demanded that he take everything Emet-Selch was offering with his kiss.

_Gods, what am I_ _**doing?!** _ _This man is no friend!!_

The Exarch pulled away, gasping. But Emet-Selch pursued his mouth, giving him no opportunity to speak. The Ascian's aether – a purple darker than black – spoke to the Exarch's soul as it coiled around them.

 _Give in_ , it whispered. _You want this pleasure as much as I do...give in_.

 _I shall_ _ **not**_ _..._ But the Exarch's aether twisted and threaded itself together with the encircling darkness, ravenous and wild and not quite under his control.

 _You are all alone in this Tower of yours_ , Emet-Selch murmured, as he lured the Exarch's tongue in and then sucked at it as if it were a cock. _I, too, am alone_.

That dark, sweet aether slithered against him, coiled like smoke.

_Come..._

The Exarch shuddered and wondered for a moment if he might, in fact, come untouched. The Ascian's lust was so very powerful, and it called out to the loneliness in him so strongly...

_Share some small pleasure with me._

Flutters of sensation ghosted across his body, titillating, caressing him beneath his robes, insinuating into him in the most brazen fashion possible. Hinting, haunting, hungry.

 _Ease your suffering in me_...

No – no, he must not give in to this! He must resist!

But oh, the _promises_ skimming across his aether, the delicious way the Ascian's tongue slid across his own...

With a curse, the Exarch pushed Emet-Selch away.

“ _ **No!!**_ ”


	6. Get Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch pressed his aether into the Exarch, seeking more intimate contact. He had seduced many a mortal this way, sometimes ruining them utterly without ever laying a physical finger on them. Sex was nothing new to him, though it did remain one of the few things he enjoyed. Eliciting reactions in his lovers still made for a bright spot amid the gray eternity of his existence.

All he needed to do was invade the Exarch's aether, insinuate himself on a level deeper than blood and bone, lure the man's soul in and plant the seeds of addiction...

But he had never encountered a soul so dense! He could not penetrate it. That, as much as the Exarch's physical strength, made him move away.

For the first time in centuries, something stirred in him. He stared hard at the man in his arms, at the diamond-bright soul within, and did not dare to voice his hope. Not yet. Not until he knew more.

And he would know more of this man, this Exarch. He wanted, with a hunger he had not known he was yet capable of feeling, to know every single inch of him, body and soul.

“You would come here, and attempt to – to seduce me?” The Exarch's face was red as he hissed into Emet-Selch's face. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you believe that mere loneliness could weaken me so much as to listen to your propositions?”

But for all his angry words, that bright aether still reached out for Emet-Selch; his yearning was written all over him. His lips were rosy from the Ascian's attentions already. Another kiss and...

Emet-Selch opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden pulse of aether shoved him back three full steps, out of reach of the Exarch. He stared for a moment, nonplussed. That aether had not come from the Exarch himself, who was surely too flustered for such control.

Runes flared on the floor, golden light driving Emet-Selch back another step.

The Tower was protecting its master.

“Get out.” The Exarch's voice was deeper and more resonant now, his ruby eyes blazing. “You are not welcome in my Tower, Ascian.”

Emet-Selch reached out, and let his fingers touch the golden light. Pain flared – he winced, and dropped his hand. He fixed his eyes on the Exarch's for a long moment. He understood that the Tower could not force his exit – but it could, and would, sequester him.

He did not speak. let the Exarch see his resignation, his acceptance of that fact...and then he let his gaze turn hungry once more, raking his eyes across the smaller man, memorizing the way he was blushing, the hint of moisture on his lips and the slight darkening from being kissed hard and well.

Then he opened a shadow portal behind himself. He stepped backwards into it, unwilling to tear his gaze away from the man who had so captivated him.

He would have to win the Exarch's trust. A task that would take time, at the very least. But what did he have, if not time?


	7. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

“Soon, we will throw wide the gates...”

He opened his eyes, and heaved a long, tired sigh. The sound whispered through the Ocular, and for a moment he contemplated turning his steps towards his bedchamber. Even though he had not attempted another Calling, the contact between worlds was enervating.

But such thoughts were dispelled by the brisk rapping on the door.

“Come in,” he called out. He did not allow his tone to reflect the sense of resignation he felt.

Two people entered the chamber – white hair, blue eyes, and both of them wearing nearly identical expressions. Alphinaud's attitude was slightly calmer, but Alisaie still looked as if she would like to pummel the Exarch. Had there not been such tension among them, he suspected he would quite like the twins...but he knew that at least for now, there was no hope of befriending them, not really. They would work with him because they must, but they did not trust him. It was written in the way they held themselves as they came to stand before him, the way that Alisaie's chin lifted, the belligerent tone of her voice.

“Well?”

“Yes, Alisaie, the contact was a success. I can only hope the Warrior will do as I bid, and search near the Crystal Tower on the Source for the talisman.”

“Is she all right?” Alphinaud demanded.

“She seemed well. Very...ah...energetic.” He saw no need to describe for either of the twins the enraged expression on the Warrior's face, or the way she had nearly been ready to attack him.

“Once she finds the talisman,” Alisaie's eyes narrowed, “you will summon her here. And you are absolutely certain that she will be brought here to the First, body and soul together?”

The Exarch huffed. “Really, such questions are unnecessary at this point. I am confident that this time, it will work.”

“When?” She crossed her arms.

“Yes,” Alphinaud echoed his sister's pose. “When will you make the attempt?”

For an instant he was tempted to tell them both to take themselves out of his Tower and let him be. They had been _most_ bellicose since their arrival, and though he did not entirely blame them, enough was enough...

He took a long breath and instead gave them a gentle smile. “As you already know, it takes some time for my energies to recover. This most recent contact was no less difficult than the efforts that resulted in each of you...arriving here.”

“Being snatched,” Alisaie muttered. But she uncrossed her arms and ran a hand through her bangs. “Fine. Then I suppose we two should go about those investigations you wanted us to undertake.”

“I would be most appreciative if you would,” the Exarch replied, trying to keep his tone even and neutral. “After all, it will mean that much less time to spend on such, once the Warrior is here at last.”

“You will keep us informed, will you not?”

“Of a certainty.”

“Then I shall be off. Come, Alisaie. Walk with me to the Amara Launch.”

Alisaie shot the Exarch one more frown before nodding, and flouncing out behind her brother. The doors shut with their customary whisper, and the Exarch blew out a long breath.

He locked the doors, and retreated to his quarters.

Once there, he shed his robes with a sigh. The entire Tower was kept at a reasonable temperature, though his own rooms were just a touch warmer than average. He spent so much time bundled up in those robes...when he was alone, he preferred as much freedom as possible.

He padded across the thick carpet of his bedchamber, completely nude, and entered the bathing chamber. Even after more than a hundred years, he still had to shake his head in mild amusement at the sheer decadence of this room. The golden fittings and the blue Meracydian marble was not that remarkable – not here, at least – but the fact that the Allagans had found it necessary to include so many conveniences still made him laugh.

Still, it was nice having warm towels, endless hot water no matter how long he wished to soak, and silent automata that cleaned up after him. And then of course, there were bath salts...

“Ahh.” He lay back in the tub and let his muscles relax. One of these days he would have to actually take a sample of the salts down to the alchemists and see if they might be able to replicate any of its properties. But for now, this was one of his few indulgences, to laze about in scented water and simply exist. The scent of rosemary and mint rose up around him, carried on the steam, and he shut his eyes.

Rosemary for memory.

If he had not already been searching for her, her appearance might have shocked him. She looked so different now than she had when he had last known her. Tougher...no, _toughened_ ; there was a steely look in her eyes now, a hardness to her. And beneath that – he wasn't sure. She had gotten much, much better at hiding her feelings.

Oh, he missed her. He missed her with an intensity that made him _ache_. Not just the pain of regret, knowing how his leaving, sealing himself within the Tower, must have confused her.

He would have thought his fantasies all worn out after so much repetition – but seeing her renewed every one of his memories of her body, reawakened every old dream, and fantasy followed close upon memory and dreams. His manhood was already coming to life, just thinking about her. Over a hundred years, and still she made his blood burn with need. He was reaching down beneath the water, to ease the precious ache in his loins.

He hitched himself up a bit, grateful again for Allagan decadence – the tub had a wide edge, perfect to sit upon it, calves still in the water. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, and stroked himself. His motions were smooth, practiced; he half closed his eyes and built the scene in his mind, of how he would love her if he could ever have the chance to touch her again.

How he would caress that bronze skin – tug at her silken hair, tipping her head back so that he could set his teeth against her throat. He could almost feel her skin against his lips, almost taste her, his memories so strong in this moment that they could have happened yesterday.

How she would cling to him with arms and legs, how he would pin her to the wall and torment her sex until she begged him to take her, to make her his own. How he would claim her, mark her, and then fuck her until she screamed for him...

It did not take long. Even as his fantasy culminated, his cock began to spurt, and he groaned, the sound loud and sudden in the otherwise silent chamber.

Panting, he sank back down into the tub, and cleaned himself up. Then, he clambered out again, and dried himself with fluffy towels, and made use of the special brushes that let him soothe down his poor, abused tail fur – constantly confined beneath the damned robes, he took special care with it on such evenings as this. He was not a vain man – but he enjoyed the way the rosemary scent clung to him, the way it made his hair and his fur feel. He enjoyed brushing out his hair, his tail; took comfort in applying thick lotion to his skin, along all the places where crystal met flesh.

He lay down on his bed, piled with furs and blankets, more of a nest than a proper bed, but comfortable. Warm, and relaxed from his orgasm as much as the rest, he lay on his belly, and drifted, almost asleep, dreaming of his beautiful Warrior and how, soon, she would be near him once again.


	8. Every Step You Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

The Exarch, it seemed, was having a bad day.

Perhaps it was the fact that four different areas of Lakeland had suffered sin eater attacks just this morning – none of them close to each other. He and his captain had been beside themselves trying to cover the need with a limited number of troops. Only some clever maneuvering on the part of the commanders in the field had allowed the attacks to be fended off without casualties.

No casualties did not mean no cost. The Exarch had spent the last two hours within the Spagyrics, helping to heal the men and women who had been mauled by eaters – and the one soldier who had been injured by friendly fire. Emet-Selch would have laughed at the fool, but the Exarch treated him with sympathy and dignity far above what the wet-eared whelp deserved.

Emet-Selch observed this nonsensical behavior, unremarked by anyone – even the Exarch. Had he simply been lurking as was his usual wont, he could not have remained in place and watching for so long – almost a fortnight had passed since his ejection from the Tower. However, Emet-Selch was no ordinary Ascian, and he had methods available to him that the Exarch could not possibly dream of.

Such as the power of creation – and the ability to see through the eyes of that which he created.

_No one ever looks_ _**up** _ _. Fools._

The shoe-bill was neither elegant nor pretty. It was large, but it was not so large as to excite thoughts of dinner. He could have made a smaller simulacrum – something the size of a sparrow, for instance, would have been no more trouble than this. But the larger bird had decent vision and – more importantly to Emet-Selch – much better hearing.

 _A pity that owls are not natives of Lakeland. A small owl would have been the perfect spy_.

The bird flapped heavily, finding another perch, as the Exarch left the Spagyrics.

Emet-Selch would have taken a break – for food, or even a nap. Certainly the Exarch had worked hard enough that no one would so much as blink at him for doing so. But instead, the man moved on to his usual exhausting round of meetings and inspections. They did not look like meetings, nor inspections, to Emet-Selch. He had conducted plenty of both in his decades as Emperor. No, what the Exarch was doing was sitting down with the heads of various parts of his city and _chatting_. A friendly visit – one that did not particularly need to take place every day, at that.

Emet-Selch did not fail to notice, however, the positively starry eyed gazes these people gave him. One could not foment rebellion in the Crystarium – to try might actually get one killed. They would do nearly anything for their Exarch, and he in turn treated them with a gentleness beyond all reasonable expectation.

He wanted to ask the Exarch why; but for now he still could not approach the man for conversation, much less anything else. But perhaps...

He reflected on the past days. His initial attempts to contact the Exarch had gone poorly – letters incinerated without even being opened, for instance. So he had begun to listen in on the Exarch's day – watching him when he could. He had learned much and more about the city, but very little about the Exarch himself.

His attention was recaptured as the Exarch's steps took him in a new direction.

_Oh? What's this?_

The bird took to the air, and headed for a higher spot. Emet-Selch watched closely as the Exarch seemed to wander idly into the garden areas of the city – most of the plants were not for pleasure, but for sustenance, of course, including the somewhat eclectic orchard. It was there that the Exarch now walked – in among the trees. Emet-Selch sent his spy winging down into the boughs.

It was with no little frustration that he finally located the Exarch. The shoe-bill was a bird of swamps and shallow ponds and other such places. Its feet were ill suited to clinging to tree branches, and Emet-Selch finally had to resort to stamping about in the grass below the trees. _Most_ bothersome.

But when he saw the Exarch at last, annoyance faded.

He was alone, lying on a wide bench, and looked to be dozing off.

 _So he does take the odd cat nap now and again. How very convenient this could be_...


	9. Sleep to Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch sighed as he sat down on the wide wooden bench beneath the oldest apple tree in the Crystarium orchards. It had been a long week – punctuated by a crisis, of course. Bandits attacking Fort Jobb, collateral damage to a cistern and the various troubles that caused – and then, today, multiple sin eater attacks. He had been working very, very hard.

The Tower cared for his physical form, removing the need for sleep and food, but that did not mean he was never weary.

It felt good to sit here in the orchard. It was warm today; he could almost believe he was basking in the sun. No one came to this corner, this tree – it was known that he liked to sit here from time to time; he let down his hood, his ears wriggling a bit. It was quiet, save for the sigh of wind through leaves.

He stretched out on the bench, setting his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He let his mind drift, let himself remember days in the sun, before the Tower, long days spent doing nothing more important than lying in the grass beside the woman he loved...

Sleep stole up on him, and tugged him down.


	10. Sympathy for the Ascian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch stood beside the bench and gazed down at the Exarch. Asleep in the sun like an overgrown house cat. He lay on his back, one leg bent, the other resting on the ground. A pose surely not in keeping with the dignity of the so-respected Exarch...but a very fetching one.

Charmed, Emet-Selch skimmed his hand across the Exarch's raised knee. He was rewarded with a sleepy mumble, and the knee shifted slightly, spreading the man's legs just a bit more.

 _Oh, that is much too tempting to ignore_.

The Ascian sat down on the edge of the bench, and carefully lifted the silk robes. He slid his hand beneath them, to caress the Exarch's knee...then his thigh. He kept his eyes on the other man's face.

The Exarch mumbled again – a name, perhaps? – but his eyes did not open. Emet-Selch stroked the soft skin, fingers inching up along the thigh until...

A wicked smile curved his lips. The Exarch, it seemed, was fond of a certain sort of _freedom_.

Delicately, his fingers explored the warm flesh and the surprisingly fine hair covering the groin that he could not – yet – see. The Exarch's ears twitched, but his manhood did far more than that, awakening swiftly beneath Emet-Selch's gentle touch. He circled his thumb and forefinger around the base of the shaft, and then stilled as the Exarch moved again.

The ruby eyes opened, but only halfway. His voice was very soft and slurred with sleep. “Am I dreamin'...”

Emet-Selch smiled. “Most assuredly a dream.” He curled the rest of his fingers around the rapidly hardening member in his hand, and stroked slowly. “Will you send me away again?”

“Don' hafta...” The Exarch's eyes drifted shut again. “...feels good.”

Emet-Selch leaned in a little, pushing the Exarch's robes farther up. “Since you are dreaming,” he murmured, “what would you have of me?”

“Dunno,” came the sleepy answer. Then, after a moment, “Your mouth...thinkin' about it too much.”

Emet-Selch hummed, pleased. “Oh really?”

He moved the robes out of his way, and shifted his position to lower his head between the Exarch's legs. Even as he did so, the Exarch flexed his hips, rocking upward just a little.

He held in a groan as he observed the cock he was about to devour. A more elegant phallus he had never seen. Flushed and rosy and stiff, with a gentle curve to it that would surely feel divine... Emet-Selch reminded himself to take his time.

A great blue line of crystalline flesh extended down his left leg (the thigh Emet-Selch had not been fondling), and now the Ascian pressed his lips to that glittering ribbon, tracing the vital blood line from knee up to the groin. Meanwhile his other hand fondled the heavy balls that nestled beneath the Exarch's manhood, intrigued by the curling scarlet hair, silkier than he might have expected. When he nuzzled them, the Exarch gasped and writhed a little.

A drop of moisture appeared at the tip of his cock. Emet-Selch smiled at the evidence of the Exarch's readiness.

Without further delay, the Ascian wrapped his lips around the hot flesh, and took the Exarch into his mouth in one long, slow downward motion.

“Ahhhhhh...ah!” The thighs framing his head tensed and trembled as the Exarch gasped.

Emet-Selch did not give the man time to formulate a single word; he began to suck the Exarch's cock in earnest. He bobbed his head, hollowing his cheeks on the upstroke, and gently squeezed those heavy, large balls. The Exarch made a choking sound, and his balls tightened with anticipation.

The harsh panting above him told Emet-Selch that the Exarch was _quite_ awake now. He felt hands clutching at his head, the robes falling down over him as the other man fumbled, trying to get hold of him.

The Exarch's voice was even weaker than his grip. “N-no, no...oh fuck – ah, hah, gods – ”

Aether fluttered between them, and Emet-Selch slipped his power close to the Exarch's skin. Ghostly fingers formed, sliding across the smaller man's chest and belly. Another set of ghostly fingers stroked the insides of his thighs, then kneaded his buttocks.

The Exarch's hips began to buck, and Emet-Selch let a natural rhythm form, sucking steadily, feasting on the luscious moans falling from the Exarch's lips. His own cock throbbed in time with his racing heart beat.

The lower set of aetherial fingers moved inward, until Emet-Selch was using them to massage and prod at the tight ring of muscle below the balls his gloved hand still cradled.

“Ah gods!”

The Exarch seemed to lose all control over his voice, then. Emet-Selch was gently, slowly, sliding those ghostly fingers inside of him. First one...then another...and another.

Emet-Selch could feel the tension in the Exarch's body. The fingers may have been made of nothing but aether but he could still feel with them, and the Exarch quivered around those fingers, just as he quivered in Emet-Selch's mouth. Even more delicious was the way the other man's aether trembled and latched onto him, tangling as it had the first time they touched, seeking, begging for more.

Unable to hold in a moan of his own, Emet-Selch gave him more, reaching inside just enough to find the place that would undo him.

The Exarch stiffened, and groaned loud and long. His cock began to spurt into Emet-Selch's mouth, the hot come spilling out a bit onto the Ascian's cheek. Emet-Selch swallowed up all he could, but the Exarch's spend was almost too voluminous to handle.

When at last the Exarch lay still, Emet-Selch withdrew his aether, allowing only a few tendrils to remain in contact. He sat up, and slipped free of the fallen robes. He swiped at the streak of come on his cheek with his thumb, and then licked it off his glove.

Another, softer groan issued from those lovely lips, and ruby eyes stared up at him.

“I did say, did I not,” Emet-Selch smirked, “that I meant you no harm.”


	11. Lonely Teardrops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch was falling apart inside.

He stared up at the Ascian's smug expression, heart pounding, body singing in every fiber from the incredible orgasm Emet-Selch had given hm, mind reeling with embarrassment – no, with _shame_.

Shame that he had enjoyed it so much, shame that he wanted nothing more in this moment than to beg Emet-Selch to do it _again_.

He could not even sit up, limbs too weak to hold him. He sprawled helpless before this _enemy_ , and he felt more naked than if he was wearing nothing at all.

He trembled under the weight of a hundred years alone, and in that moment he was no longer the Exarch, mighty and powerful and mysterious. He was only G'raha Tia, shaking and vulnerable and _so gods damned lonely_...

A tear ran down his cheek.

“Did you not enjoy yourself?” Emet-Selch asked, raising one eyebrow.

“That was...shameful,” G'raha whispered.

“Ah, then you _did_ enjoy it,” Emet-Selch countered, and smiled. It was a lazy smile, a tiger's smile, and G'raha shuddered to see it.

“Now, then, Exarch,” Emet-Selch purred, “perhaps you will listen to this Ascian after all?”

His resolve crumbled a little more, as he stared into those lambent eyes. He could not look away, he could not breathe properly, somehow. Finally he forced himself to answer.

“...speak.”


	12. Would I Lie to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

_I see you now, Exarch_. Emet-Selch laughed to himself. The man sprawled before him was, above all else, _alone_. Emet-Selch knew well the kind of weight such solitude placed on a soul. How the ache began small, and slowly grew, like a cancer, until it contaminated every thought, word, and deed. He knew that ache intimately, and he knew exactly what to say. But first...a simple proposition.

“I am quite willing to continue such favors as _this._ ” He patted the Exarch's bare thigh. “An equable exchange seems most appropriate, don't you think? A share of pleasure for each of us – taking, and giving. Think of it as solace, if you wish – as comfort against the ache of all those decades that your crystalline halls have echoed only with the sound of your own footsteps.”

“I...will not...” The Exarch sat up, dragging his robes into some semblance of dignity. “I cannot in good conscience agree to this. I will not betray my city, nor the trust my people place in me, by consorting with the very enemy who destroyed their world.”

“Ah, but _I_ did not destroy this world,” Emet-Selch said, his voice even, not losing his smile.

“You lie.”

“I never _lie_.”

The Exarch grimaced. “Forgive me for not accepting the bare word of an Ascian – especially not your word, in particular. I know your face, Emet-Selch. You were once the Emperor of Garlemald, were you not? Solus zos Galvus hardly set a precedent for trustworthiness. Why should I trust what you say?”

Emet-Selch crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands over his knee. His smile was indulgent. He heard the shiver in the Exarch's voice; he was content to be patient. He had already won, after all.

“Very well, I will give you facts,” he told the smaller man. “Facts which you can verify for yourself.” He unclasped his hands and leaned close. “And when you have corroborated what I shall tell you...”

“What?” The word was almost strangled, as the Exarch tried not to sound breathless instead.

Emet-Selch laid a gentle, sweet kiss against those plush lips. “Simply return here,” he murmured, “and call my name.”

The Exarch pulled away, and Emet-Selch let him, straightening. His golden eyes were keen as he watched his quarry. “You consider yourself a fair man, yes? A man who gives everyone a chance to prove themselves. So then – give me this chance. If you still believe me a liar after examining my evidence...all you need to do is remain silent.”

The Exarch's voice was shaking, breathless. “And if I do not remain silent?”

“Why, my dear Exarch...” Emet-Selch chuckled, “If you call for me, I shall answer.”


	13. Don't Need Nothin' But A Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch stood in the orchard beneath his favorite tree, and argued with himself.

 _I should not be here. I should just forget about Emet-Selch_.

He had listened to the Ascian's evidence, and had gone away after, still shaking inside from the things Emet-Selch had done to him. He had researched, tirelessly, chasing down every speck of information he could. He had corroborated every single one of the facts that he had been given, and uncovered a few other details that only served to further support the inescapable conclusion. Emet-Selch had not lied.

But still, he should not be here. He should not even be contemplating the Ascian, or his offer, or his hands, or his mouth. Damn it, he should not already be achingly hard...

“Emet-Selch,” he rasped.

A soft sound – a breath of strangely cold breeze – and then –

“Ah, my dear Exarch.”

Arms went around him, a warm body pressed close behind him. The Exarch closed his eyes.

“I still do not trust you,” he said. “You and yours have caused much suffering, and...” His breath caught, his words forgotten as Emet-Selch nuzzled his neck, finding the pale flesh with ease despite his hood. The man's hands were very large, and strong, and elegant. The way he caressed the Exarch's chest made the smaller man's heart race.

“Let us not speak of such things,” Emet-Selch murmured. “Let go of the burdens you carry, for a little while.”

“My people – need me,” G'raha Tia struggled to hold his thoughts together. “I cannot – I _will not_ – abandon them.”

“ _I_ never said you should.” He could hear Emet-Selch's smirk. “Shall I reassure you? A promise, if you like: I can ensure that at least when I am here in the Tower, hmm, _distracting_ you – ” He pressed a kiss to the Exarch's neck, a most distracting sensation indeed. “While I am here, no harm will come to your people. Would that suffice to ease your mind?”

Aether curled around the Exarch, now. Dark, and sweet, and stroking against him, making his flesh tingle, making his crystal _hum_. “I...” He swallowed. “I suppose that might – be a start.”

“Consider it an oath, then, my dear. Sin eaters shall not trouble the Crystarium, nor Lakeland, for today.” Emet-Selch's hand move lower, until he was palming the Exarch's stiff and aching cock through his silk robes. “Now tell me,” Emet-Selch rumbled, “Do you want me, Exarch? Will you not accept my offer at last?”

Everything the Exarch knew to be right and good shouted at him to say no, to step out of this embrace, to flee.

Everything else in him cried out for more – more touching, more of all the pleasures that he had been denied for a hundred years. He was a starving man, and Emet-Selch was offering him a feast.

He leaned back, letting the Ascian support his weight. G'raha Tia whispered, “ _Yes_.”

Emet-Selch laughed.


	14. Hard to Handle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch turned the Exarch in his arms, and gathered him close. No longer reluctant, the red-haired man wrapped his arms around the Ascian's neck. Mouth sought mouth, hungry kisses punctuated by small moans now and again from the smaller man.

Emet-Selch tugged at the silk robes shrouding the Exarch's body, but the smaller man pulled away slightly, shaking his head.

“Not...here,” the Exarch mumbled. “Need...need privacy.” Ruby eyes met gold. “If you will permit...?”

Emet-Selch lifted one eyebrow, and nodded.

Bright aether flared and swirled, enveloping the two of them. Emet-Selch was quite familiar with teleportation magics, and recognized the sensation immediately; when they reappeared within a room, he was already pressing the Exarch close again, kissing him and tugging more insistently than before at his clothing.

Peripherally he noted that this was a modestly appointed bedchamber – naught more than a bed and a dresser, really, more sparsely furnished even than an inn room might be – but the details mattered little and less. The man in his arms was the focus of his attentions.

“I want,” the Exarch panted, “I want to _see_ you,” and then his hands were plucking at the sumptuous velvet of the Ascian's robes.

Emet-Selch chuckled, and then lifted one hand and snapped his fingers.

Instantly he was nude – and so was the Exarch.

The smaller man gasped once, but then plastered himself against Emet-Selch, tail lashing, rubbing against the Ascian without any hint of shame now.

Emet-Selch chuckled. “My, aren't we needy.” He sank his fingers into the Exarch's scarlet hair and pulled his head back. “But I think perhaps you are forgetting something, my dear Exarch.”

“What?” Ruby eyes were half shut, lips parted, an expression so tempting that Emet-Selch simply had to claim that mouth one more time.

“You've had pleasure of me,” the Ascian murmured against the Exarch's mouth, “now, it is my turn.”

The Exarch shuddered delicately, but he did not resist when Emet-Selch pushed him down onto his knees. There was no need to explain.

The Exarch's hands explored the firm length of the Ascian's cock. The smaller man swallowed, a hint of nervousness passing across his features. It was a magnificent member – thicker than the Exarch's own, darker, with a plump head, which the Exarch stroked, then hesitantly licked.

Emet-Selch flexed his fingers in the plush scarlet hair. “That's right. Taste of me, dear Exarch. Bathe my cock with your tongue.”

Moving almost as if in a trance, the Exarch obeyed that soft command. He laved the massive cock with slow, broad strokes of his tongue, returning again and again to the head to flutter his tongue across it. He pumped the lower part of the shaft with one hand, while his other hand gently cupped the balls that hung beneath, as if weighing them. He traced the pulsing vein along the bottom of the cock with the tip of his tongue, and when he reached the head this time, a drop of pre-come oozed out.

He looked up at Emet-Selch as he very deliberately lapped up that pearly drop. Emet-Selch groaned with lust, and the Exarch pressed his lips to the head, then slowly took it into his mouth.

Emet-Selch watched, his lips parted a little, as the Exarch manfully did his best to take him. It was clear that the smaller man had not done this often – if ever – and it was equally clear that he would not be able to accommodate more than half of the Ascian's cock. Yet he tried, and Emet-Selch let him try, until the Exarch's eyes were watering and his lips strained to open farther.

Only then did he pull himself out of that delectable mouth, and cup the Exarch's chin in his hand, leaning down to kiss him, then drawing him up and over to the bed in the corner.


	15. You Might Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch let the Ascian lead him over to the bed. He had not brought them to his personal bedchamber. The Tower had once quartered thousands within its walls; there were _plenty_ of other rooms that would do for the purpose. They needed privacy and little else.

He would share his body with Emet-Selch. He would not invite him into his heart.

He sank down onto the mattress, and allowed the Ascian caress and fondle him. His jaw hurt a little from attempting to suck that huge cock. It had felt a bit as if his skull would split – but up until that point, he had wanted that cock, wanted it badly enough to keep trying.

The Exarch's hands wandered, blunt fingertips tracing arm, shoulder, chest, then lower. Emet-Selch had almost no hair on his chest, but a line of dark coarse hairs seemed to coalesce on his belly, trailing down towards the belly button and onward.

His own chest was but lightly covered in fine scarlet hairs, except where his flesh had become crystalline. Emet-Selch was exploring the crystalline expanse of the right side of his chest, tongue stroking here and there across the glass-smooth surface. The Exarch could feel the contact, but it was muted, the crystalline parts of him being rather limited in function.

“Is your heart also crystal, I wonder?” Emet-Selch murmured.

The Exarch laughed a little. “No.”

“Fascinating. How did you come to be thus transformed?”

The Exarch shook his head. “A story for some other time, perhaps. For now...” He let his hand drift from Emet-Selch's belly to his cock. “Did you not say that it is your turn for pleasure?”

“Oh, it is, my dear, _dear_ Exarch.” Emet-Selch grinned. “But I must make certain you are quite prepared for me.”

That was all the warning he was given – suddenly dark aether swirled, and a tendril reached out from Emet-Selch and caressed G'raha's inner thighs. He quivered, his body recalling how Emet-Selch had titillated him before. When that seeking tendril began to rub gently against his rear, the red-haired man groaned aloud.

He did not leave off stroking the thick cock in his hand, however.

Emet-Selch stretched out on his side, and trailed one finger up the other man's body, then leaned in to catch the fleshy nipple in his teeth, gently nibbling, licking, sucking. G'raha sucked in a breath, then his hips jerked as he felt that aetherial tendril insinuating itself inside him. His legs spread, almost against his will, and he squirmed, the sensations new and intense and –

He turned slightly, as if to cling to the Ascian, and Emet-Selch curled one arm under his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Even as their tongues fenced and stroked against each other, Emet-Selch reached down and lifted G'raha's balls, fondling them, making him moan – then making him moan louder as that small tendril flexed, burgeoned, spreading him.

“Very good, Exarch,” Emet-Selch murmured into his mouth.

“Touch me,” G'raha answered, burying his nose against the Ascian's neck, breathing in the burnt incense smell of him. “Give me more...”

“My, my, aren't we a brat,” Emet-Selch chuckled, “making such demands. After all, it is I who am to be pleasured, no?”

G'raha stroked the Ascian's cock, a little harder now, faster, and pressed his mouth against the smooth chest. “Am I not doing so?”

“Hmm, it is clear you have not handled the cock of another.”

G'raha's head snapped up and he saw Emet-Selch smirking, golden eyes glittering. The red-haired man bared his teeth, and moved until he was kneeling beside the other man. Ruby eyes flashing, he gripped the thick phallus, and set his mouth upon it. He still could not take all of it, but he worked the bottom half of Emet-Selch's cock with his hand as he licked and sucked at the tip and what he could manage of the shaft.

Emet-Selch smiled down at him, and ran his fingers through the thick red hair. “Ah, I knew that mouth could be put to good use,” he crooned. “You do learn quickly.” He scratched the Exarch's ears, making the smaller man whine around the cock in his mouth. Emet-Selch shut his eyes for a moment when G'raha sucked hard, hips thrusting against that mouth. “So enthusiastic.” His voice wavered, breathless.

Even as the Exarch feasted on the Ascian's cock, Emet-Selch extended his aether further. The tentacle inside the Exarch swelled, approaching the same girth as a cock, and G'raha moaned and pulled back.

“Stop teasing me, you bastard.” His voice was harsh, rough with need.

“Oh? Shall I do this, then?” And the shaft inside of him began to rock in and out.

G'raha's eyes fluttered, and he whimpered, then fell to sucking on the cock in his hand, fervently, moaning again and again as Emet-Selch worked him.

“Shall I come in your mouth?” mused the Ascian. He laughed softly when G'raha made a noise of protest. “Oh, no? Shall I splash you with it then?”

Once more G'raha pulled away. His lips were swollen and his eyes watered. “Damn you,” he panted. He crawled upwards. “I need – please, give me – fuck!”

“Hmm, how charming, to hear such desperate pleas falling from these delicious lips,” Emet-Selch replied. He sat up, and hauled the Exarch to him for a hard kiss, then rolled him onto his back. He rose up onto his knees, and grabbed the Exarch's legs, forcing them apart, and up, pressing.

The aetherial tendril eased away, split into two, and looped around the Exarch's thighs, pinning him.

G'raha panted harshly, eyes blown wide, as Emet-Selch placed warm fingers against his entrance. He felt lubrication – his lust-filled mind too hazy to bother reasoning out how it had come to be – and tensed.

“Now, that won't do at all,” Emet-Selch murmured. “Relax, my dear. Open to me.”

Gold met ruby as Emet-Selch began to slowly, surely press forward. The tip of his cock, well slicked by G'raha's saliva, was hot and wide and it seemed it would surely split the smaller man in two.

G'raha tossed his head from side to side, breathing ragged, tears on his cheeks, hands scrabbling against Emet-Selch's chest until the Ascian captured his left hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing each finger.

Emet-Selch murmured and soothed, and kept right on pushing, a steady pressure, unrelenting, incredible, almost terrifying. G'raha tried to buck his hips, instinctively, but he was too firmly held in place. He was going to die on this cock, it was going to kill him, he couldn't –

Emet-Selch paused as the head of his cock fully entered the Exarch, letting the smaller man's body adjust now. The hot, tight channel flexed around him, almost as if it would drag him deeper.

“You're doing so very well,” he crooned. G'raha shuddered, and panted. His crystalline hand was buried in his own hair, and his skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

Emet-Selch sank in deeper, still moving slowly. G'raha had never felt so filled. His cock strained, pre-come oozing from the tip, twitching with every gasp.

When Emet-Selch's hips were flush with his own, he cried out, a soft little sound.

Emet-Selch's face was red now, his skin just as damp with sweat as G'raha's own. His eyes were half shut as he eased his hips back – and then shut tight as he sank inside fully once more. He muttered a word G'raha could not understand, and he quaked all over for a moment.

Then he opened his eyes, and began to fuck G'raha, slow strokes that drove the breath from his lungs. Every gasp was punctuated by the lewd sound of their bodies meeting.

Emet-Selch reached down, and took G'raha's cock into his hand, pumping it in time with his own thrusts. The smaller man began to sob, his flesh growing pink; his crystal glittered.

“Ah, _gods_ , I can't – I – hah – hah – _fuck_ , I can't – I'm c – ”

Emet-Selch seemed fascinated by the way G'raha came, watching the come splashing all over the smaller man's chest and belly. But in only a few thrusts more, the Ascian groaned and let go of G'raha's cock.

His fingers dug into G'raha's legs as he fucked him harder, a salvo of short hard thrusts that culminated with his eyes squeezed shut, his head tipped back as he let out a long, ragged moan and came.

G'raha cried out, his voice high and fluttering over the Ascian's, as he felt that enormous cock jerk and twitch inside of him.

For a long moment, time ceased to have meaning, the two of them lost in ecstasy.

But when at last the Exarch's eyes cleared, the Ascian was leaning over him, lips curved in a tender smile. “I think this shall be quite a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he told the Exarch, and then kissed him, deep and slow and sweet.

Around them, the Tower thrummed, a single long note, almost too low to hear, a sonorous echo of its Master's cry.


	16. The World I Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch reclined on his couch. Soft music played, wafting through the apartment; from here he could see all the way to the Capitol building, and the gleaming towers among and beyond. His city, his beloved Amaurot...what there was of it. Naught but a fragment of the true magnificence...and so achingly empty.

He forced his mind away from such thoughts, and contemplated instead his new lover.

The Exarch had been _most_ satisfying to lie with – and though he lacked experience, he certainly made up for it with enthusiasm. Beyond the physical, however, there was the matter of that soul of his.

Aether the same brilliant blue as the Tower itself, glittering and bright, almost enough to make his Ascian essence wince. And hints of familiarity, as if they had known each other. The fact that he bore none of the marks Emet-Selch had been searching for still perplexed him somewhat. But he had time to sort out that mystery. Far more time than he would have with a mortal lover.

Mortal lovers were so flimsy. Their frail bodies, their fragmented souls, could not long endure his attentions. He always had to be so very _careful_ of them. There was an element of challenge to it all, a slow method to the seduction. He would begin with the simpler, mundane pleasures; and then reveal more and more of the true potential contained within an Ascian lover, until they broke.

They always broke, in the end.

He had grown to accept that taking a mortal lover meant eventually losing them. And he was too wise to dally with his fellow Ascians. One should not blur the lines between work and pleasure, after all. Too, he had never felt that sort of affection or attraction even to the other Paragons. And he was no Elidibus, to deny himself every pleasure in the name of duty. So – mortal lovers, and their mortal frailties, were his way of staving off the boredom, the screaming loneliness, the echoing void that had once held his entire world. They were never enough, but he didn't expect them to be.

He did, however, feel a tiny pang of regret every time he had to bury one of his playthings.

Thus far, it seemed like the Exarch would be a far better lover than any he had enjoyed in eons. He must take care, and ensure that he did not get away. Strong as he was, there was in truth a possibility that he might resist Emet-Selch's charms, and his powers.

He had not had to _woo_ someone for thousands of years.

He found himself looking forward to the challenge.


	17. Hello, Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch fell to his knees, gasping, his head swimming. It had worked! He had felt it – the Warrior was here, at last!

He raised his watering eyes to look upon her – and froze.

The Ocular was empty, save for himself.

“Oh...oh, _no_.”

He pulled his mind back from the edge of panic, with effort. He had not failed. He _could not_ have failed! She had taken up the talisman that would provide the necessary connection, and he had _felt_ the difference in the energies of the summoning ritual.

He reached for the energies of the Tower and sent his perceptions outward, searching the energy fields for that unique signature that he knew so well. She _had_ to be here on the First.

Somewhere...

Some few minutes passed before he perceived at last the unmistakable sign of the Warrior. She was out in Lakeland, near the road...not far from the Accessor Gate.

He brought his awareness back to his body, and got to his feet. For an instant, he swayed – and then, the Tower reacted to his need, his agitation, and new strength flowed into him, renewing his energy, granting him vigor.

He hurried from the Ocular, to the Tesselation. The moment his sandals touched the dirt of the road, he began to _run_.


	18. Little Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior  
> (second person POV)

_“Soon we will throw wide the gates...”_

As you fall into darkness, you scream his name.

You wake to find yourself in Ishgard, in the infirmary.

Ser Aymeric, bless him, does not press you for answers. You manage enough of a smile to let him leave without worrying, and then cry yourself to sleep.

Three days pass.

Now, you approach the Crystal Tower. Your heart aches, and you still cannot wrap your mind around what you now know – and what you don't know. You have changed your clothing to reflect your mental state – black, head to toe, even to your smalls.

Knowing who was doing the “Calling” only opened up far more questions. It can't be real. How could G'raha Tia do this to you – to your friends? Why had he hid his face from you? And what had _happened_ to him, to his body?

Standing at the base of the Tower, memory stings you, and you simply stand for a time. Remembering how he had looked, at the top of the Tower that day. How he had smiled at you and told you that everything would be all right.

How he had glanced back only once, as the Tower doors sealed him away.

You had thought him as good as dead, never to awaken during your lifetime.

You had mourned him.

And now... _this_.

You only half listen to Tataru chattering with Wedge, your attention wandering. A glitter catches your eye – a gleam of brass? You go over to investigate, and discover a somewhat battered old Ironworks badge. You have only enough time to register what it is – Tataru and the others come over to you to inquire – and then –

_“Now I have you!”_

You stand inside the Tower, in a room he calls the Ocular – a room like none you ever saw when exploring the place, before. Maybe this Tower isn't at all the same one you thought you knew. A city surrounds this Tower, and the place hums with life. The sky outside is unnaturally bright. Yet all these folk carry on – many of them are cheerful, even.

And one and all, they follow _him_. They call him the Crystal Exarch...a name that makes a certain amount of sense, given his crystalline limb and the near-worship with which he is treated.

He pretends not to know who G'raha Tia is.

You want to grab him, shake him, demand answers...demand more than that. Two years without him – _two years thinking he was dead!_ – and now, you cannot decide if you are furious, ecstatic, or heartbroken. Perhaps it is all of them at once. Your head aches, and not just from the Light and the lingering effects of the summoning.

For all your inner turmoil, you keep your face and body language strictly controlled; outwardly you are calm, stern, and steady. You listen to his words, and you hear what lies beneath those words as well. For all the things you want to say, to ask him, you know that now is not the time to interrogate him. You take his letters, and stalk out of his Ocular, and make your way to be transported.

First, you will tend to your friends. You will think very carefully about your next moves, after that. But you _will_ have words with the Exarch.

Reuniting with first Alisaie, then Alphinaud – your closest friends in the Scions – is sweet, and bitter as well. Relief – regret – retreat. But at last you stand in the Exarch's Ocular once more, and they are beside you as they ought to be. They flank you as you stare down the Exarch. You feel stronger for their presence.

Before you can begin to question him more closely, however, Captain Lyna arrives with word of an attack in progress. You cast one last glance at the Exarch as all of you leave. If it is to be lies...then you, too, will lie; you will play his game. For now.


	19. Who's That Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

He felt it in the very fabric of the world – like ripples spreading in a pond after a large rock has been tossed in. The epicenter of the disturbance was the Crystal Tower.

Without hesitation he teleported, emerging high in the air above the Crystarium, scanning the horizon and the area just outside the city gates. But no sin eater attack was visible – the whole of Lakeland seemed almost asleep, in fact. There was no sign of conflict of any sort, and as the reverberations from whatever had just happened faded, he began to turn toward the Tower. Had something happened to the Exarch?

Then he felt it. A new presence in the world. Someone was here, who had not been here before – and _not_ one of his fellow Ascians.

He cast about with his senses for a moment, and headed towards a grove of trees not far away.

His lips pulled back in a momentary snarl as he caught sight of her.

He did not know the woman below – or rather he did not know her name or her antecedents. But he knew, too well, what she was. The Warrior of Light, champion of Eorzea and her savage peoples; servant of Hydaelyn, slayer of Ascians and eikons alike; and a _royal damned pain in the ass_.

He wanted to spit for an instant, but then he calmed himself, and frowned for a different reason.

How in Zodiark's name had she gotten here? She was supposed to be on the Source, being dealt with – or at least tormented – by Elidibus, since his colleague had seen fit to wear his great-grandson's form as his current vessel. There had been no word of that effort failing.

He drifted after her, silent and drawing no attention to himself. His senses reached out, ghosting across her aether. It prickled at his touch, but since he did nothing overt, it settled back quickly enough that she did not react. Indeed she seemed not to notice anything untoward. He sneered. So many of the heroes that Hydaelyn chose were utter dunces, oblivious to all subtleties, and generally only about as bright as a trained dog. The truly intelligent mortals flocked to Zodiark, as was only right.

His brief touch told him all he needed to know. The bone-dust odor of the Rift clung to her aether, leaving a chalky taste on his tongue as he contemplated her. She strode along the road, eyes fixed on the Crystal Tower, as if she knew where she was going.

This would not do. He did not need this particular wrench in the works. Bad enough that he had to come here, instead of enjoying his well earned rest... He flexed his will, and summoned up a lesser sin eater, setting it on her trail. He heard, rather than saw, some fool fall to the eater's claws almost instantly upon its appearance, and half smiled. Its appetite thus whetted, it would go for her throat the moment it caught sight of her. There was no way she would be ready to deal with the peculiarities of sin eaters, having been here less than fifteen minutes.

But before it caught up to her, she reached the outpost that guarded the approach to the Crystarium. Emet-Selch watched the Warrior as she spoke with the Exarch's guard-captain – a formidable enough woman, for a mortal. He took note of how tense the captain was – dared hope for a moment that she might actually drive the Warrior off, and right into the claws of his beast.

Instead, the dratted woman killed the sin eater, saving the Warrior's hide. Emet-Selch scowled.

His scowl deepened when he saw the Exarch – running like an eager schoolboy! – only to come to a halt, and greet the Warrior with every evidence that he had been expecting her.

 _Something is afoot, and I do not like it one bit_.


	20. Stay Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You return to the Crystarium, weary but not exhausted. One Light-warden down, and who knew how many more to go; yet you do not feel particularly worried. The fight had not been easy – but no worse than things you had faced before. Though you ache for Alisaie, you know better than to reach out to her right now. She needs time. She will come to you, when she is ready, and then you will be able to offer her comfort.

Meanwhile, you have a few things to deal with, yourself.

You bid Alphinaud good-night, absently, and take yourself up onto the walk above the great aetheryte. You pace there for at least a quarter bell; debating, arguing with yourself.

You know what you will do in the end.

Telling yourself it's a bad idea is mostly for form's sake; this way you can tell yourself later how you tried, how you _could not_ resist.

Even as you cross the Exedra, you half believe your own lie. After all, how could you _ever_ stay away from him, with what you know?

The guard lets you in, and you go straight to the Ocular. There is no hesitation in your step. Your head is held high. There is no outward sign of your anxiety.

He is waiting for you. This time, he doesn't have his staff in his hand, and his lips – those damned lips of his – wear a small frown of concern.

“Is something amiss, my friend?”

“Yes.” You take a long breath, and speak the words you've rehearsed in your head since the hour you first met him, in this strange world. “I would ask something of you, Exarch.”

He tilts his head, and you plow on, forcing your voice to remain steady.

“Become my lover.”

He takes a step back, mouth opening. Shocked.

“You said that you need my strength.” You lick your lips, hoping he cannot see the way you shake. “I say, you owe me a very great debt already, for stealing away the Scions, and for not knowing how to restore them.” You lift your head, feeling as though your stare could burn away that damned hood. You know what lies beneath its shadows, _you know him_...

But you will play along with his pretenses. You will lie to him, if he wills it.

 _Because you need him too much not to do anything it takes to have him once more_.

It will be a hot day in Coerthas, however, before you admit that to his face.

“If you wish me to continue eliminating Light-wardens,” you tell him, as if you're discussing some minor fetch-quest and not the fate of two worlds, “then you will agree to my terms...you will pay me as I demand.” You swallow hard and your voice drops into a growl. “Pay me with your flesh, Exarch.”

He is stock-still, as if he has turned completely crystalline.

You come closer, until you are standing before him, almost touching but not quite. Close enough to scent him, that so-familiar scent that nearly brings you to tears. Your whole being aches for him, but your voice does not betray your feelings.

“Must I put it more crudely?” You tilt your head up, eyeing him. “I am asking you to share my bed, Exarch.” A breath. “I'm asking you to fuck me.”

“Alas,” he answers at last, his voice strained, “your request is...unfeasible.”

“Because I might see your face?” You let out a breathy laugh that holds no humor. “Or is there another reason?” You wait only a breath before yanking your shirt off over your head. You hear him gasp. You see his hands clench. He bites his lip, and you purr, “Clearly you do not find me hideous.”

“ _Never_.”

“So then – blindfold me or the like.” You toss aside more of your clothing, piece after piece, until you stand before him bare and brazen, in nothing but your smalls. “I do not care if I cannot _see_ you, Exarch. I do not need to know you, or love you. What I desire is to _feel_ you.”

He makes a small sound, a desperate and needy sound, and you know you have him.

You sway one step closer, and catch his crystalline hand in yours. “Touch me, Exarch,” you murmur.

His hand moves at your gentle urging, and when his palm skims across your nipple, you hum in delight.

He is shaking as he raises his Spoken hand. He passes it over your eyes, and darkness enfolds you.

Then his arms wrap around you, and his mouth is on yours.

You moan and open your mouth to him immediately. Your hands knot in his robes. He tastes of moonlight and memory on your tongue, and mingled with the primal scent that is only his, and a hint of rosemary.

You almost weep when you feel the muscles in his arms. That same strength held you in place against a wall of this very Tower...so very long ago. You yearn against him, and you can feel him growling, a deep rumble that thrills you to your core.

He releases your mouth and sets to ferociously kissing and nipping your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You cling to him, and bite your lip on the things you want to cry out.

“If you truly wish this,” he rumbles in your ear, “I shall oblige you. But I _will_ do with you as I wish, and you...must trust me.”

“With my life,” you answer without hesitation, turning your head, trying to kiss him.

He evades you, and nips your neck again, warning you, “I will not hurt you. But I _will_ make you scream.”

“Yes,” you pant, nearly sagging in his arms as your knees wobble. “Fuck, _yes_.”

“Then if ever you need me to stop...”

“I will say the word Labyrinth.”

You can feel his breath hitch.

There is a shimmer of aether around you, and the scent of the air changes, the sounds change – you're in another room. This room smells faintly of books and sandalwood. You feel thick carpet beneath your bare feet.

You wiggle your toes and smile. “Nice trick.”

The Exarch huffs a little – a nearly silent laugh – and releases you, trailing his fingers down your arms, then taking your hands in his. His Spoken hand is warm, but his crystalline hand is noticeably cooler. He tugs your hands. “Forward,” he commands.

You move your feet, cautious, sliding your soles along the carpet, until –

“Stop here. Now, turn thus...yes.” His hands cradle your face for a moment, and he kisses you, slow and soft and sweet. “Do not move,” he breathes.

Then he lets you go and you stand still, skin tingling, ears straining. You still wear a small smile, but your brows begin to knit. He is moving about, and you can hear the faintest whisper of fabric. You cannot say if he is disrobing, or if something else is going on. What is he planning?

The two of you had explored many things, back then. He always had been rather fond of blocking your sight and playing little guessing games; your own favorites had usually involved immobilizing him so that you could lovingly torment him until you were good and ready to fuck him senseless. Even remembering those long, wonderful nights makes you shiver with wanting.

You gasp when he touches you – you had not heard him approaching. Cool crystalline fingers stroke along your arm, and silk touches your skin. “Lift your arms, and place your wrists together.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks, and anticipation quickens your breath. “I would not have guessed,” you tease, “that a man of your station would enjoy this sort of thing.”

“Even if I were a man to play games,” he doesn't seem to notice your small gasp, “I cannot well have you using your hands too much. You are a curious and devious woman, and I have no doubt you would try to ferret out more secrets than I wish you to uncover.”

You make a little noise as if your feelings are hurt. “What if I gave my word not to do any such thing?”

He growls in answer, and begins to wrap your wrists with silk – a sash. The sash he had been wearing, perhaps? You are momentarily distracted by the sudden intuition that he is standing naked before you. By the time you bring yourself back to the moment, you can only marvel that he has gotten very good at such bindings: the silk is neither too tight, nor too loose.

Having tied your hands thus, he kisses the backs of your hands.

“Now,” he breathes, “we shall begin.”


	21. Hands All Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

She stood before him, naked but for her black silk smalls and his red sash wrapped round her wrists. She was smiling, a small, cocky sort of smile, as if she had him right where she wanted him. He had seen that smile many times...a hundred years and more in his past.

He scooped her up in his arms, eliciting a small gasp from her. He held her close, and carried her to the bed and its nest of furs. He settled her in the middle of it, and stretched himself out beside her, guiding her arms up over her head, stroking her hair until it lay just so across the furs, his thumbs stroking her temples. She had a scar on her cheek that he did not recognize, and he pressed his lips to it, wondering what story lay behind it. He began to skim his hands over her body, light touches followed by light kisses, marking her curves, her scars, lingering at her earlobes, her nipples, her hips.

She sighed, then moaned softly as he placed one tender kiss over her mound. Her hips rocked upwards towards him, entreating.

He teased her, stroking his fingers across the black silk, and then sliding down, farther, to lick and nip at her thighs. She wriggled, making a noise of frustration. Then she spread her legs, and her foot came up and stroked against his ribs. He had forgotten how nimble she could be.

She slid her foot further towards his spine, then began to drag it downward, and he caught at her knee and pushed her leg back so that she could not reach him.

“Tch,” he chided her, “you must be patient.”

She growled at him, and he could not help but laugh. Then he grasped her thigh firmly, and bit her just above the back of her knee.

She yelped, and wriggled, but he held her firmly, and when she calmed somewhat, he placed her leg on his shoulder. Her skin was silken against his own, and he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to keep his composure. So many fantasies...so many long and lonely years, wishing for this moment.

Not this exact moment, he reminded himself. In all his dreams, she saw him, she knew him, and she loved him. The woman in his bed was not the woman of those dreams. She did not know him. She hated him, to some extent: how could she not? He had caused her suffering.

He did not understand quite why she had made her demand, why she was trusting him so.

He never had been able to resist her.

He slid his mouth across the black silk that still concealed her sex from him, feeling the dampness there. He could almost taste her arousal, and her scent flooded his senses, waking his deepest instincts. He growled, letting his voice and his breath tease the sensitive flesh, and heard her whine.

Hooking his fingers into her smalls, he tore them at the seams and tossed them away. She moaned, a needy moan, and whined once more.

“Shameless, aren't you?” He kissed her mound, then lipped at her outer folds, making her hiss and wriggle, trying to force her sex harder against him. “Are you shameless enough to beg for what you want?”

He watched as she raised her head to stare, sightless, down her body at him. She clenched her jaw for a moment, and then – his breath caught. The smile she gave him was so salacious, so sinful...

“I want,” she told him clearly, “the mighty Exarch to pleasure me with his tongue. I am begging you to make me come with your mouth.” Her voice turned raspy. “Touch me, taste of me, _take me_ , Exarch. Please.”

Oh, she had become _much_ more wicked since they had parted.


	22. Sweet Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You cannot see him, of course, but you are exquisitely aware of him in all other ways. His scent, the feel of his skin against yours as he teases you, the sounds he makes, even the way he breathes. You feel him shaking, and know he pauses to control himself. His excitement is like a delicate perfume to you, too ephemeral to describe, but enough to make your skin tingle and your heart race just as much as his touch has done.

When he tells you to beg, your natural stubbornness raises its head. You give him a deadpan response – all the words he could have wanted, but in a tone loaded with sarcasm – and his response is all you had hoped it would be.

“I see it is going to be a very long night,” he growls, and then he shifts away, his breath closer to your knee now than your sex – and before you can do more than draw a breath, you feel fingers stroking against your mound. They are harder than fingers ought to be, and yet they are warm like flesh...your breath leaves you in a small startled huff as you realize this must be his crystalline hand that he is using.

You shudder as he drags his fingertips across your folds, and bite back a sharp gasp when he parts those folds just enough to slip one finger inside. You can't restrain your hips, though. You rock against him, and in only a moment you are fulfilling his command, shamelessly begging him in earnest. You need him too much, and a single finger is quite simply _not enough_ –

“Please!” You gasp as he withdraws. “Please, Exarch, give me more – give me your mouth – ”

“Hmm, that's better,” he murmurs. “But not – quite – enough...”

You yowl as he teases you mercilessly, using two fingertips – but only the tips – to delicately stroke your inner folds, yet never truly dipping within you. The torment is maddening and delicious all at once. You toss your head, back arching, trying to wrap your legs around him.

“Now, now,” his tone is gentle, adoring, mocking. “Use your words, my...friend.”

Despite the lust hazing your thoughts, you do not miss the hitch, the hesitation. He had almost called you something else. Already you have weakened him so much?

“I beg of you, Exarch,” you whimper, “ _Please_ , lick me, give me your tongue and your fingers, I _need to come_...”

He pulls away from you, and for one heart stopping instant you think he means to truly deprive you. You cannot stop the sob in your throat.

Then you shout in rapture as you feel his head between your legs, and at last his tongue is delving against you, his mouth as clever and hungry as your dreams always painted it. Your voice is ragged as you babble to him, nearly incoherent. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as you realize that he remembers exactly how to pleasure you, all the little things that you like the best, all the ways to make you come fast and hard against his mouth.

You shriek, bucking against him. He does not slow his frenzied feasting, does not let you down from the high for more than an instant, making you come again and again, his fingers bruising your thighs as he fights to keep you in place.

When you fall silent, mouth wide, too strung out even to scream, only then does he relent. He does not stop, however, merely easing back, laving you with his tongue further, letting you down slowly. You lay shivering and gasping, coated with sweat and nearly sobbing, limbs heavy. He skims his hands across your thighs and kisses his way up your body. When he claims your mouth, you do sob, the sweetness of his kiss like coming home at last.

How you want to call him by his name. How you want to tell him, right now, that you love him.

The sweetness is tempered by the bitter knowledge that you cannot.

Then you feel him shifting, feel his cock pressing against you, and rational thought scatters like birds before a storm. All you can manage is a low, desperate moan.

“Shall I take you?” he whispers against your mouth. His hands caress your hips, ease your thighs apart a little further. “Will you beg me for this, as well?”

Words are beyond you. You nod vigorously, another ragged moan pulled out of you by the way he drags his tip across your outer folds.

“Already you cannot speak? How flattering.” The amusement in his tone makes you want to smile, to laugh, to weep. You lift your chin, arch your back, _offering_ , wordlessly.

He growls, low and rumbling, the vibrations titillating your nipples. Your voice cracks as you manage a single word.

“Please.”

The sound he makes then is not unlike a sob, but the way he enters you is anything but sorrowful. You cry out, joyous and broken, as he thrusts into you, a long smooth stroke that buries him inside you to the hilt. His hips nestle flush against yours, fitting there perfectly as if the two of you never parted.

You fight back your tears. He must not see you cry, not now, not yet – he will ask too many questions, or too few, and you cannot handle either eventuality.

“Fuck me,” you pant, teeth clenched, “Exarch, fuck me, gods please just – just – ah!”

His mouth is on your neck and he is pumping hard into you, fucking you with abandon, his hands gripping your hips. The force of his thrusts drives the breath out of you, and your cries are broken things, fluttering and high and fragmentary. But even as you begin to shriek, you feel him tightening, feel his fingers digging into you, feel him shuddering.

He groans your name.

The sound of it pushes you over the edge into orgasm.

You stiffen, mouth opening, sound not yet emerging, and he curses, then slams into you, subtlety gone, control gone.

He pulls out of you and comes all over your belly, and both of you groan. He collapses atop you, his cheek pressed to your chest bone, panting like a bellows. You are both covered in sweat, breathless, slightly whimpering with every ragged gasp.

You realize after a moment that you can see.


	23. Sleepwalk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

He lifted his head and stared down at her, his cheeks wet.

Those beautiful eyes gazed back at him, and he saw tears there.

Belatedly he realized she was looking at him, and his ears went back in alarm.

She shook her head, and then closed her eyes, and turned her face away from him.

“How...?”

“I don't know.” Her voice was hoarse. “Do not worry. I can pretend I did not see. I can keep your secret, Exarch.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he murmured, before he could stop himself. “You were ever a woman of great integrity.”

Then he touched two fingers to her chin, turning her face towards him once more, and kissed her. A tender kiss, a kiss that said the things he could not tell her aloud. She trembled beneath him.

He wanted to keep her with him, to have her in his bed all night long, to emerge in the morning with her brazenly at his side and damn his greater plans...

But no. He could not do as he wished. There were greater things than his mangled, misguided feelings to consider.

“Come,” he said softly, “let us get you cleaned up, Warrior. I would not send you back to your quarters so disheveled.”

She let him lead her, keeping her eyes closed. She did not speak, allowing him to help her into the tub. She washed herself, and ran her hands over him blindly until he made her turn her back to him. Then, she remained still as he washed her hair for her. He allowed himself one last indulgence, holding her to him after they were clean, and simply enjoying the feel of her against him.

He did not want to let her go. He had forgotten how her mere presence soothed him down to his bones. How full his heart felt when he was with her. Gods, how had he lived a hundred years without her? And yet he must not let his resolve weaken. There was but one path to the future he had foreseen; and that path did not allow for his happiness.

He must take what he could for now. Moments such as these were not to be expected, but could be treasured – and treasure them he would, for what time was given to him to do so.


	24. Bad Romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch stepped out of his portal the instant the Warrior stalked out of the Ocular.

“What,” he asked, his voice icy, “is _she_ doing here?”

The Exarch turned to look at him, hood obscuring his eyes. His voice was too smooth, too steady. “I summoned her.”

_What? Such a summoning would require more power than any mortal can hope to gather in a hundred years...ah._

Emet-Selch crossed his arms. “Why expend the energy to drag some scruffy adventurer here? The people of the First place no value on _heroes_ , dear Exarch.”

“I am aware.” Too calm, he was _too calm_ – it was beginning to annoy the Ascian.

“So you bring a hero to this world, to suffer for your entertainment?” he inquired. “My, your mind is as twisted as mine own.”

Now the Exarch reacted, his mouth tightening. “It is true that she will suffer,” he said, and turned away. “I shall not, however, take joy from that suffering.”

“And what shall you take joy from, hm?” Emet-Selch pursued him, coming close, standing just at his elbow. “Do you plan to use her body, Exarch?”

“I do not.” But Emet-Selch felt the shiver in that bright aether.

“What _are_ you planning, you sly thing?”

“Alas, I cannot say.” Humor threaded through his voice now. “It is a surprise.”

Emet-Selch came around to stand in front of the Exarch once more, and reached out to caress the smaller man's jaw. “A surprise, hmm? I suppose I can let it alone. For now. If you distract me.”

The Exarch's mouth twisted, but his voice was just as playful as Emet-Selch's. “Distract you? At your age, I am amazed you can keep track of your thoughts long enough to need distraction.”

 _“At my age?”_ Emet-Selch barked a laugh. “Oh, you think yourself clever... _young man_.”

The Exarch lifted his hand to his mouth, pretending to cough, but they both knew he was laughing. “Clearly I have outsmarted myself,” he came back, “since I have attracted such a troublesome individual.”

“Troublesome, am I?”

“Oh yes, most troubling. I cannot sleep for worrying about what you might do if left – ”

Emet-Selch could not hold back at that point, and gripped the Exarch's chin in his fingers, bringing his mouth down on those so-kissable lips, sliding his hand around so that he could tug the smaller man close.

“We can come back to this later,” he murmured. “Right now...dearest Exarch...I find myself too hungry to banter.”

“Am I to be your sustenance, then?”

“Yes.” Emet-Selch grinned wickedly. “I could just take you right here and now, you know.”

“Do you believe our old bones can withstand such abuse, fucking on a cold floor?”

“If you do not want to find out,” Emet-Selch warned, his hands wandering in a most lascivious way, “best do something about our location before I lose _all_ my patience.”

Aether shimmered, and they were in the bedchamber. Their trysts were necessarily short, lasting but a few hours each time. But over the last five months, they had established a kind of routine – or at least, a few comfortable habits.

They had spent time here often enough, too, that the Tower had begun to respond. Various comforts had appeared – surely not brought here by the hands of servants. Oh, the extra blankets, the towels and other such things were mundane enough. But _some_ of those comforts were most definitely Allagan – and quite naughty.

“One of these days,” he said to the Exarch as the two of them disrobed, “I will have to ask you just how – and where – you obtained such an _eclectic_ collection of toys.”

The Exarch did not answer, but he blushed. Emet-Selch admired the sight. He had the most charming blush, staining his cheeks and the back of his neck, all the way down his shoulders. His ears tended to droop a bit as well, adding to the effect.

Emet-Selch had grown fond of those ears, and he moved forward now, encircling the Exarch with one arm while reaching with the other hand to bury his fingers in the thick scarlet hair and scratch gently at the base of the furry ears. The Exarch muttered and then began to purr, a deep rumbling in his chest that Emet-Selch could feel when the smaller man pressed closer. Skin on skin, skin on crystal, aether to aether; their movements were languid, almost as if they were dreaming.

As always, the Exarch was the needy one, clinging desperately to Emet-Selch, never satisfied to simply relax and let the Ascian handle him. His hands were restless on the other man's body, on his cock, slipping into his mouth, rubbing and stroking as if he could not be still.

Emet-Selch sent aether tendrils winding around the pale limbs, not binding, merely _suggesting_ , tugging, until the Exarch lay spread before him, arched, legs apart in a most fetching pose that displayed his elegant cock to best effect.

Emet-Selch leaned back just a little, smiling. “If I were a painter or a poet,” he murmured, “I would capture you like this, Exarch. Such a charming vision you are, so eager...”

He curled over the Exarch and took that so-lovely cock into his mouth. The groans he could wring from the man never ceased to fascinate him. This time, he did not linger; this time, he brought his lover to the edge of orgasm much faster than usual.

Then, he _stopped_.

The Exarch's eyes snapped open and he scowled up at Emet-Selch. “What are you – is something wrong?”

Emet-Selch did not answer, only growled. He reached out to the dresser beside the bed and snatched up a bottle of lubrication, and with rough motions he tugged the Exarch's leg upward, resting the man's ankle on his shoulder. He applied the lube, being generous, and tossed the bottle aside after. He worked his own cock for a few strokes, smearing the remaining lube across the thick head, and then he was gripping the Exarch's leg once more.

The Exarch cried out, head thrown back, as Emet-Selch dragged him onto his cock.

There was little resistance – but never before had the Ascian moved so swiftly in these initial steps of their dance of dalliance. The Exarch tossed his head and then stared up at Emet-Selch, tears on his cheeks. “Why?”

Emet-Selch held the Exarch's leg prisoner with one hand, and turned his head. He set his mouth against the pale skin just below the knee, and suckled and bit until the Exarch yelped. When he lifted his head, a dark mark was already blooming.

“You are _mine_ ,” he told the Exarch, and began to move. He pulled back, slowly, until only the head of his cock remained in that tight heat – and then he slammed himself home. As the Exarch gasped and tried to writhe, the Ascian's other hand slid up his chest, then down once more, fingers crooked into claws. “I claim you for my own,” he rumbled, and gently bit the Exarch's leg again.

“I don't – ” But the Exarch's words were cut off as Emet-Selch put two of his fingers in the smaller man's mouth.

“That flea-bitten, secondhand hero does not deserve your notice,” Emet-Selch told him. “Use her as you must, aye, but do _not_ forget this.” He punctuated his words with another hard thrust.

The Exarch moaned around the fingers stopping his mouth, and his hands latched onto Emet-Selch's wrist. He sucked hard on those fingers, hard enough that Emet-Selch felt the prick of the smaller man's fangs.

Aether tangled between them, dark and light twisting and braiding and strangling.

 _I am not a beast to be claimed and marked and bred_. The Exarch's aether created a sound in the air, the snarl of a great cat.

 _We are both beasts, and you know it to be true_. Emet-Selch pounded into the Exarch, his teeth clenched. _This may be naught but rut, between you and I, but I shall suffer no other to know you as I have. You belong to me now._

With an effort, the Exarch tore Emet-Selch's hand away. “Never, you bastard,” he panted.

“You _want_ this,” Emet-Selch snapped. “Do not bother to lie. If you did not want me to fuck you like the animals we are, you would never have called to me, never have let me do _this_ – ”

Aether tendrils curled and writhed and then the Exarch's body was lifted, his legs bent until he could wrap them around Emet-Selch's waist. The Ascian pulled the smaller man close and kissed him, deeply, desperately.

“You cannot deny that you enjoy my cock, Exarch,” he growled against those plush lips.

“I will not let you pretend to own me, damn you.”

Emet-Selch held him tightly and plundered his mouth, and let his aether speak instead of his voice.

 _Of course I own you. After all, you own me_. The power pulsed between them, as Emet-Selch lifted the Exarch's body and slammed it down on his cock, again and again.

_I want no part of you – do not say such things –_

The Exarch's hands were buried in Emet-Selch's hair.

 _I never lie, dearest enemy. Look upon me and see how much truth I am telling you_.

“N-no...” The Exarch's voice was weak, wavering. “You cannot – we are doomed to ever be at odds – hah, ah gods – this is not – ”

“It is what it is,” Emet-Selch insisted, nibbling the Exarch's lower lip. “Say it, Exarch.”

“You _cannot_ love me,” the Exarch gasped. “I cannot – hah, ah, ah – I don't love you – I _can't_ –”

“Do you deny that you need me?” Emet-Selch stopped cold.

A rising whine escaped from the Exarch, impaled, his cock dark red and oozing pre-come. “Don't – you can't leave me like this – ”

“Oh, I can indeed.” But Emet-Selch was smiling. “And I shall, if you do not say it.”

“N-n-no, I can't – _ahhhhhhh_ – please!” The Exarch wept now, struggling, trying to make Emet-Selch move once more, desperately seeking completion. The Ascian shifted, pulling his cock back just a little more, and the smaller man broke.

“Please! I _need_ you, Emet-Selch, I love your cock, _please_ give it to me!”

The sound that came from Emet-Selch's throat then was not human, but a tear ran down his cheek as he sank home inside the Exarch once more and buried his face against the crystalline vein in his neck.

“Need...you...” he panted against the cool crystal. He stroked the Exarch's cock now, fervently, and in moments the Exarch's eyes rolled back in his head and he shouted, that elegant cock pumping come all over both of them. He had not finished spurting when Emet-Selch joined him in climax.

They collapsed together onto the mattress, heedless of the mess they had made. Emet-Selch pulled out with a sloppy noise, and then cradled the Exarch close to him, curling his limbs around the smaller man. The Exarch wrapped his arms around Emet-Selch's neck and wept against his chest, over-wrought and exhausted.

“She cannot have you,” Emet-Selch whispered. _“I do not share.”_


	25. Blacker than Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Tower hummed.

The Warrior was away now, off in the kingdom of the fairies, where the Exarch could not look in on the proceedings. He could only pray that she was all right, and that she would navigate her way into friendship with the fae creatures, enough to allow her to locate and defeat the area's Light-warden. He tried to reassure himself that she was among friends – the twins were with her, and Thancred, and they would soon meet with Urianger. All of them would do their best to protect her, just as they would protect the young Oracle. There was little and less he could do to help them, so he might as well occupy his time in some useful fashion...

He had searched his not-inconsiderable personal knowledge, and the library he had amassed within the Tower, but he had found no new information regarding the way in which he had Called the Scions to the First. He understood, somewhat, that he had dragged only their souls here, but he was not certain how he could reverse the process. All of his notes, all of the source material he had worked from to develop the incantation in the first place, indicated only one path to solve the issue.

His own death.

The act of dying would sever any active incantations – every one of the Scions remained here because their summoning was, in a very real sense, powered by his very existence. He had, in effect, entangled their souls and his own – a tenuous connection, but enough to anchor them here, and give them the ability to take on physical forms. “Ghosts that you can see and touch,” he had told the Warrior, and it was the most accurate description he could manage.

But dying was not something so easily arranged, not for him. The Tower would fight to keep him alive, would sooner see him made one with itself than let him truly perish. It must: for he was its sole Master and no other was available.

His plan would, ultimately, succeed in sending the Scions home, but he could hardly tell them that; knowing what he intended would make all of them fight him about it, and that simply would not do.

He had promised the Warrior that he would find a way to send the Scions home, however.

And so he stood in the center of the Ocular, and attempted something very foolish.

Interacting with the Rift was chancy at the best of times. Feeling his way around the edges of it this way was even riskier. But he could not think of anything else to try with what he knew so far...

He had walked in the aetherial sea many times, and was as familiar with it as anyone mortal could hope to be. There were aspects of that place beyond and within that he could barely perceive, much less comprehend, but it was a place full of warmth and light and life. A place where souls might linger unharmed – not like the Lifestream, where aether was shredded to pieces and souls stood a good chance of being obliterated if they tried to resist the flow.

The Rift was like neither the aetherial sea, nor the Lifestream. It was cold, empty, dead. Darker than the remnant of the Thirteenth, where darkness was all that existed: because there, in that Void, the darkness was populated by twisted creatures, it roiled with twisted energies, and for all of its hatred and its hunger, it was still alive in its twisted way.

The Rift was, quite simply, emptiness. It held the shards of all the worlds, but it was not, itself, a world as such. It had substance, but no energy, no life. Only the vitality of the life that inhabited each shard kept the Rift at bay; in those unfortunate few that had succumbed to Calamity, their delicate crystalline shells had cracked and then collapsed inward, and the Rift had claimed them.

To travel in the Rift was to risk utter dissolution.

But the Exarch walked here, now, at the very edge where reality met that inexorable blackness, and tried to take some small portion of its substance into his hands, to examine it, to try to trace the paths that six souls had followed to reach the First...

He realized, too late, that it was an idiotic plan.

He had reached to touch the Rift, and it reached as well, reached into his heart and his soul and began to leach his very life force at a terrifying speed.

With a groan he wrenched himself loose, and cast his soul back towards the Crystal Tower. The Tower made a sound, a chime, and that reverberation seemed to push back the darkness just enough to permit him to escape.

He fell to his knees, his staff clattering to the floor. Even as he pitched forward, he cursed himself for a fool. He lay there on his side, aching in his bones, and wished he had fainted.


	26. I'll Watch Over You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

He sat straight up on his couch, blinking, irritated. Something had woken him – but what? He hated it when his naps were interrupted. He cast his senses about, thinking perhaps something had disrupted the simulacrum of his city, but there was nothing out of place.

Then it came again, a chiming that he did not hear but rather felt in his aether, almost in his bones, a melodious cry of distress. The Tower wept.

Emet-Selch did not waste another moment. When he stepped out of his portal and into the Ocular, he was still wearing the black slacks and dark red, high necked sweater – and no shoes. Sartorial details mattered naught, especially when he caught sight of the Exarch, sprawled on his side on the inlaid floor. A tiny moan escaped from the man's tightly clenched jaws.

The curse that exploded from his mouth was not in any mortal tongue.

He was on his knees beside the Exarch in the next instant, hands checking him with swift but gentle motions.

The Exarch cracked open one ruby eye. “Go 'way.”

“I shall not. What happened to you?”

“I am,” the Exarch huffed, “perfectly _fine_. Just...a little tired.”

Emet-Selch set one hand to the Exarch's forehead. “You are fevered. What foolishness have you been up to, dearest enemy?”

“Ugh,” the Exarch let his head fall back, and shut his eyes. “Just go away, Ascian. I'm in no condition for your games.”

Then he squeaked in a most undignified fashion, for Emet-Selch was sliding his arms underneath his legs and his shoulders, and effortlessly lifting him.

“Put me down this instant!”

“I think not.” Emet-Selch sent his senses racing through the Tower, seeking the room the two of them had shared. There ought to be some slight trace of their repeated journeys to that room...ah, there it was. He opened a portal, and carried the Exarch through it and into the bedchamber.

Only then did he lay the smaller man down, gently settling him on the mattress.

With a snap of his fingers, a small table appeared. On it, a silver tray and several cut-crystal bottles, and a pair of faceted tumblers. Had the Exarch had any familiarity with Garlemald, he might even have recognized the symbols carved into the bottles.

Emet-Selch opened the smallest bottle and tapped it, spilling a pair of round white pills into his palm. From the largest bottle, he poured a measure of cold clean water into a tumbler. Then he brought both over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it.

“Take these,” he ordered, handing the pills to the Exarch, and then using his now-empty hand to help the smaller man sit up a little.

The Exarch looked like he wanted to protest, but then he sighed and did as he was told.

The Exarch's muscles trembled too much to hold the glass of water. Emet-Selch held the tumbler to his lips, letting him drink of the water. When a drop or two dribbled onto the Exarch's face, Emet-Selch swiped the moisture away with his thumb.

He let the Exarch lay back down, and set the tumbler aside on the dresser. He stroked the scarlet hair away from the smaller man's face, and asked again, “What happened?”

“Research,” the Exarch sighed. His ears twitched, an irritated flicking back and forward. “A sort of research for which I am clearly ill-prepared.” He shook his head, and closed his eyes again. “Truly, I am well enough. You need not pretend to worry over me.”

“Pretend?” Emet-Selch snapped. “I would not insult your intelligence so much as to bother. You and I may have opposing goals, but you are not an idiot, and I shall not treat you as such.”

A huff of a laugh answered him, and then the Exarch fell still, ears drooping.

Emet-Selch's hand shot out and his fingers pressed to the smaller man's neck; after a moment he let out a small, slightly exasperated sigh. He had never seen anyone fall asleep so fast. He cast his senses over the Exarch as he undressed him, a gentle exploration that revealed to him the extent to which the Exarch had exhausted himself. He noted that the crystalline portion of his chest had changed – the hue deepening a fraction, but of more concern, it had spread another inch or so. He frowned, tracing his finger along the joining of flesh to crystal, noting the angry inflammation. Was this some effect of the Exarch's connection to the Tower? Would he someday become solid crystal? Meld with the very essence of the Tower?

Emet-Selch shook his head. He did not like that thought.

Nor did he like the thought that the Exarch had spent himself so recklessly in pursuit of research that could only have been related to the dratted Warrior.

He stroked the scarlet hair once more, and let his hand trail across pale flesh and blue crystal alike. In sleep, the Exarch seemed very young, and rather sad somehow, as if he had so many worries that they did not leave him alone even in his dreaming. No doubt, that scruffy hero was but one of those worries.

The Ascian got into the bed and stretched out beside the Exarch, gathering him close. Limp, the smaller man did not resist, or respond, but Emet-Selch did not care. He held his lover to him, and stroked him quietly, murmuring in a language that the Tower had never heard before.

Around them, the Tower's distressed chiming faded into a more normal thrum, activity continuing as the great structure repaired its Master's hurts and extracted its price. It monitored the stranger's aether, but saw no evidence of harmful intent. Therefore it did not do more than watch, as it had done from the start. It still did not understand this loneliness from which its Master suffered, but it was undeniable that the stranger's presence alleviated that suffering. Well enough, for now: so long as there was no threat, no harm, the Tower would permit the stranger to remain.

In his sleep, the Exarch smiled, very faintly.


	27. Thinking of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You lie in Urianger's bed, in an upper room of the Bookman's Shelves, chasing ecstasy, flesh singing under his mouth, his fingertips. You squirm beneath him, frustrated that you cannot seem to keep your mind on what the two of you are doing. You lie to yourself, and blame the pixies.

If you never have to deal with fairies again, it will be too soon.

The fantastically beautiful landscape of this kingdom did not compensate for the mischief and mayhem by which you had been surrounded from the moment you set foot in the place. The pixies had been merely annoying, the quiet Nu Mou had been almost endearing once you had gained their trust...but the Fuath and their deadly games had not been amusing, not a bit of it.

Your pride still stings from the indignity of being turned into a _frog_.

You try not to grimace as you writhe among rucked up bedclothes. You focus on the long hands stroking you with gentle urgency, on the silken ash-gray hair tangled around your fingers. Urianger had invited you up here for a simple massage; but you suspect he intended all along to turn massage into love-making. His sly little games are familiar, and welcome, and almost enough... _almost_.

He dips his head lower, and places a reverent kiss upon your mound; for an instant you see scarlet hair instead of ashen locks. You bite your lip. Urianger glances up at you, his tawny eyes gleaming. He thinks your expression is in response to him – and it ought to be, by all that was right and fair, _it ought to be_. Urianger has always been a more than adequate lover – considerate, playful, and devastatingly thorough. He has never professed love to you – but then, you knew better than to expect any such thing. Urianger's heart belonged to another, even when you had first met him. Neither of you wish to change that fact. Friendship is enough.

But you must struggle to keep your mind on what he is doing to you. Thoughts of the Crystal Exarch keep intruding, no matter what you do. Mere friendship with the Exarch would never be _enough_ , nothing could ever be _enough_ to make up for what he had done to you. You ought to still be furious with him, but rage has faded into a kind of terse exasperation, and lust is beginning to drown that out, too.

Urianger's tongue is on your sex now, and you drag your attention back to the present once again. You tug at his hair to get his attention, and then make the hand signal that tells him what you want next.

He smiles and nods, and then he is delving into you, tongue and fingers no longer gentle. Three fingers glide in and out of your sex, and you arch your back and clench your teeth on your moans.

For the game, this time, is silence. Neither of you must speak, and any sounds must be as quiet as possible, or absent entirely.

Urianger, haunting libraries as he so often did, was very good at this game. Not once had he failed to make you scream in the end.

His left hand caresses your rear, and then his index finger is pressing at the hot, tight muscles there. You toss your head and your heels drum against his back for a moment, but in the next instant he has latched onto your clitoris and is suckling at it, hungry and unrelenting, and you can barely breathe for the intensity of the sensations he creates in you.

You _want_ that breathless feeling, you want rational thought to _leave you be_ – you rock your hips upward into him, shamelessly demanding.

His response is immediate. You grab a corner of the blanket and bite down on it to muffle your shriek as he slides his finger inside your rear entrance. Your own slick serves as adequate lubrication, but Urianger shows you no mercy, fucking your ass with slow, firm strokes. You can feel the orgasm approaching: your hips tilt, your head presses back into the mattress, your thighs tighten.

It hits you like a storm front, and you cannot silence the cry that is ripped from your throat. Muffled though it is against the soft coverlet, you know Urianger hears you, because he laughs, very softly.

And then his aether swarms along your skin, your nerves, and the _real_ pleasure begins.

The game is over, and you let yourself yelp now. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and it feels as if his lips might brand your skin. Fingertips touch your nipples, but they are made of naught but aether and air, and even as you gaze down at your own body, you can see the way the tender peaks react, see the indentations as of a hand kneading your breast. More fingers drag along your arms, tangle in your hair, drawing it away from your face. You groan as Urianger changes his tactics, and a dozen ghostly fingers become a dozen ravenous, phantom mouths. Tongues lick your flesh, teeth nip at you and make you twitch and gasp. It is overwhelming, and you whimper as you come again and again.

Urianger uses his aether to continue tormenting you, replacing fingers of flesh even as he is lifting himself to kneel between your thighs. He kisses you, deeply, and you can taste yourself upon his mouth. He still does not speak, but rather asks you the question with body and hands: “Shall I fuck thee, now?”

You nod. Then, you flex your body, and he lets you turn over onto your belly. The moment you are on your hands and knees, however, there is no more waiting, no more asking.

His cock is already quite large – even by the standards of Elezen men – and it feels even bigger, for he does not remove the finger of aether from your ass before he sinks into your sex. It is glorious and a little frightening, and you cry out into the bedclothes. Then you yelp once more, as his aether shifts to suckling at your nipples – a feat that would be impossible for a physical lover in this position. Aether curls into your hair and tugs sharply upward, forcing you to raise your head.

Now Urianger breaks the silence, groaning as he begins to fuck you in earnest.

You can no longer tell where he is touching you physically, save for the mercilessly pounding cock inside of you. And yet even now, strung out and nigh to fainting from exertion and pleasure – ruby eyes and scarlet hair fill your mind's eye. Would _he_ play such games? Would _he_ caress you with flesh and aether alike, should you chance to ask him for it?

Gods damn him. You ought not to think such things. You ought to forget the man you knew. The Exarch is no longer your friend. _You ought not to think such things_...

Urianger's thrusts stutter, and he moans your name as he begins to come. Aetherial fingers vanish, leaving you gasping; the sudden change of pressure against your walls triggers a final orgasm, and you screech once before collapsing into the mattress.

But when Urianger lets you go, when you fall over on your side, you are weeping. The Elezen cleans you, murmurs to you, curls around you like a great cat –

Your tears fall all the faster as your mind circles back once more to the Exarch, and to the ache in your heart that only he can fill, and to the fear that he shall never do so.

You walk through the gates of the Crystarium, surrounded by the Scions – well, save for Y'Shtola, but soon enough you will be searching her out. Your final battle in Il Mheg left you with some small injuries, but nothing that Alphinaud and Urianger between them could not handle. Perhaps the best part of the final outcome of your time in the fairy kingdom lies in the fact that Feo Ul – your beautiful branch – was now the King. They had come to your defense, thoroughly routing the Eulmoran soldiers and their stone-faced general.

A most satisfying end to the mission.

But even as you begin to cross the Exedra, something makes you pause. A hint of chill, a scent – a stench as of dark places too long without light – you look over your shoulder, and then you see him. Tall, in dark robes that look strangely familiar to you; dark hair with a white streak, and golden eyes that gleam with the arrogance of an apex predator. The eyes not of a wolf, but of a tiger – a tiger that has once tasted the flesh of man, and hungers for more. Every instinct within you recognizes him instantly, even before he speaks.

The stranger saunters up, and introduces himself. You find yourself baring your teeth in a primal snarl at his words.

“I am Emet-Selch,” he bows. _“Ascian.”_

You linger in the hallway, tucked just out of sight, until the Scions have all left. You are supposed to be in your suite of rooms, resting. But rest is so far beyond you right now...

The last of their footsteps fade, and you whisk yourself back to the door of the Ocular and slip inside.

The Exarch's back is turned to the door, as he leans his ornate staff against the wall. You know he hears you enter, for he pauses, but he does not speak.

You do not speak either. Your leather boots make little noise on the inlaid floor as you stride towards him. Reaching him, you push him – not hard – until he is up against the wall, still facing away from you.

Then you are pressing against his back, your hands flat against the wall, framing his head. You drag one hand down across his shoulder and then curl it around his body. He tips his head back as you rub your cheek against his shoulder-blade. Your boots have tall heels; you do not need to stretch up to tuck your chin against his neck. You stroke his chest, then drag your hand lower, lower, lower...

You can feel him tense, hear his breath hitch as your hand comes teasingly close to his member.

“I must say,” he murmurs, “this is a most unusual way to greet someone.”

You bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing aloud; as it is a half-choked giggle escapes you. Your attempt at a sultry, seductive tone is quite spoiled by the mirth roiling just beneath the surface.

“I believe you owe me, sir. I have, after all, defeated a second Warden. Where is my reward?”

He twines his fingers with yours, and with a shimmer you are both in another chamber.

He lets go of your hand, and steps away, then turns. He begins to raise his hand towards your face, and you duck under his arm and lean against his chest. You wrap your arms around him, your face pressed into his robes, and close your eyes.

“Is it still so necessary to you, to keep me in the dark?” Your voice is soft. “I thought I made myself clear before, but let me say it once more. I do not want emotional commitment, Exarch. I want fucking. It does not matter what you look like, who you are: to me, in these moments, you and I are merely two bodies meeting, satisfying our hunger. We are nothing to each other. You are using me. I am using you. It is as simple as that. Do you truly require more distance?”

He shudders in your arms.

“I find that it distresses me to hear you say that I am using you.”

“Uncomfortable as it may be, is it not the truth? And in admitting to it, do we not grant each other that much more freedom? With no need for lies – ”

He is pulling at you, taking your face in his hands and kissing you. “Then let us not speak,” he tells you. His voice, like his fingers on your flesh, is hard. “If it is fucking you want, Warrior, then fucking you shall have.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and bare your throat to him. “Excellent,” you whisper.


	28. As the World Falls Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

Even just a year ago, the Exarch could never have imagined himself in a situation like this.

He had fantasized about making love to the Warrior, but never in the wildest of those wistful daydreams had he been harsh – rough – angry. He treasured her; he would never harm her.

Never throw her down to the floor of his bedchamber and hold her there with his crystalline arm. Never inch his hand closer and closer to her throat, not quite stopping her breath – yet threatening it. Never slam his cock into her so hard that she yelped with every thrust.

He never would have dreamed of seeing her gasping and crying out, delicious little moans of pleasure between those yelps. She whispered filthy things up at him, begging him for more, telling him just how much she liked what he was doing to her. Gods forgive him; for he was enjoying it just as much.

But even as he berated himself, he groaned, and began to come. He pulled his cock out of her and spattered her with his seed, and then pushed away from her and staggered to his feet, unable to look at her for a moment.

She had said he was nothing to her. She had said she wanted fucking, and nothing more. He turned away from her, so she would not see the tears that stung his eyes. He did not want her to know how much she had hurt him.

He should never have acquiesced to her demands. He should never have allowed himself to hope for her affection. How deeply she must hate him, to destroy even the thin illusion of caring their first encounter had built in his heart.

Perhaps he ought to thank her. After all, this pain would make the final part of his plan that much easier...wouldn't it?

He heard her getting to her feet behind him. She was panting, but her hands were steady as she once more embraced him from behind.

“A bath,” he managed, and led her to the tub.

They did not speak as they bathed, moving with care, both of them a touch sore in the wake of their vehement fucking. He saw her eyes wander across the array of bottles – all the little indulgences of scent he allowed himself. Then her hand lifted, and she picked up the rosemary scented bath salts.

He half expected some sort of comment, but she simply set the bottle back down without a word.

When they were clean, she did not step out of the tub. She still did not speak: but her hands caressed him, teasing lightly, rubbing across his nipple, then cradling his balls and slowly stroking his cock. He was not entirely surprised that his body reacted quickly to her cajoling. For all the ache in his heart, he still wanted her – _needed_ her.

He eased himself up onto the seating ledge, and she followed him, climbing into his lap. With no preamble whatsoever, she took his cock inside of her. At no time did she raise her eyes to meet his, and once he had slid home within her sex, she leaned close, resting her head on his shoulder, hugging his neck.

She did not move at first, merely held him that way with arms and legs and sex. He shivered slightly, resisting the instinct to flex his thighs, to thrust upward. Instead, he caressed her back, and let his hands come to rest just at the upper curve of her ass.

She whispered something into his neck, and began at last to move.

As she rode his cock, he kneaded her flesh, admiring the way her muscles flexed beneath her ivory skin, the way the droplets of water still clung to her in places, as if she had been spangled with gems. He kept his chin on her shoulder, and allowed the tears to flow, trusting that she would not notice a little more water.

Soon her pace increased, and he helped her along, his hands pressing her hips even closer to his own each time she slammed herself down onto his cock. Her arms tensed, tightened, and he could hear her breathing change. He shut his eyes when she began to come, and held her tighter, taking over the necessary motion.

He wanted to make it last, wanted to feel her in his arms, wrapped around him this way, for as long as he could. But instinct once more urged him, and this time he obeyed it, sinking his teeth into her shoulder as he stroked into her, one final time. He lifted her hips, pulling her off his cock, letting his seed spill across them both.

Then, he cleaned them again, and at last she rose to step out of the tub.

She took two steps towards the door, and staggered, a small cry escaping her.

He caught her before she could fall, and guided her to his bed. She fell into the furs, and curled on her side, shuddering. He stood there for a moment and examined her with eyes and aether both. The Light she had taken into herself was agitated, beating itself against the cage of her body and her will. She was resisting it, on a level deeper even than instinct – he doubted she even realized quite what was happening or why it was causing her such pain.

He crawled into the bed and curled himself around her, tucking furs over her. He held his tongue, only because he knew that if he tried to comfort her, he would not be able to stop himself from telling her far too much. She did not need to know his plan – in fact he was reasonably certain that no matter how much she hated him, she would actively interfere with his plan if she knew what he intended.

So he held her in silence, as she cried herself to sleep.

Only when she did sleep at last, did he allow himself to shed his own, bitter tears. He had known this would not be easy. He had anticipated that she would hate him. He had not considered just how much she would despise him...or how much it would hurt.

He ought to withdraw – to refuse further encounters with her. He could not call what they were doing love-making; he could not lie to himself that way. These interludes were not healthy – it seemed clear that the two of them would only become more and more twisted up, hurt each other more, if he did not stop the downward spiral. For her sake, he must let her go.

Even as he thought that, he broke into fresh tears, and held her tighter in his arms.


	29. The Space Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

Your eyes are closed, your body limp and exhausted. You cannot weep any more, and you are so very tired. But you are cannot quite fall asleep.

Your mind dwells on what you felt, as you rode the Exarch's cock. He had made no sound, and perhaps some other woman would not have noticed the tears. But you had noticed, had felt the warm droplets spatter your skin. You are not sure what to think. Perhaps you are harming him with your insistent needs. Perhaps you should distance yourself.

You feel the Exarch's arms around you in the furs, the way his tail curls over your leg, and you realize that once more, he weeps.

His arms tighten, even as his sobs increase in force. He is mostly silent: if you had actually been asleep you would not have been awakened by this storm of sorrow.

You want to turn, to hold him closer, to comfort him. Your body refuses to respond to your will, and so you are forced to lie still, and listen to him cry.

Regret stabs you when you realize that even if you could move, you cannot comfort him. To do so would be to reveal yourself, your true feelings, the things you have hidden from him since the start, blinding him to the truth with the blaze of passion, the physical intensity of “merely two bodies meeting.” Exactly as you had intended, he believes that you do not care.

But oh, how bitter that success is, now.

If only you had not lied.

It is a long time before sleep grants you solace.


	30. Already Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

Lord Vauthry had requested to speak with the Crystal Exarch. Though the invitation had come on lovely embossed vellum of pure white, written in letters of gold-leaf ink, and was phrased with all the proper diplomatic ornamentation one could wish for – the Exarch knew Vauthry. He knew the single elegant page lying on his desk represented something far more resembling a demand than a request.

He contemplated the flowery calligraphy for a long while, debating with himself how best to handle this situation. He could not well ignore the ruler of Eulmore, though he loathed the man.

There was a tap on his door, and he glanced up. “Come in, Lyna.”

The tall captain stepped inside, her large gray eyes narrowed in concern as she scanned the office. She frowned at the plate of uneaten food, and he watched with quiet amusement as she visibly held herself back from fussing at him.

He knew she was technically off shift now, and so he did not worry himself with formalities. “What is it, my dear? Coming to check up on your old grandfather?”

“Someone has to,” she replied, as she always did.

He smiled at her, warmed by the old familiar joke, like a verbal hug.

Then she was serious once more. “I came to let you know, reports are in – the Eulmoran forces have left Laxan Loft, and their airship was seen heading for the Greatwood. Your...your friends, they are...?”

“They will be fine,” he soothed her. “They are quite capable, Lyna. You have fought beside them, you know this to be true.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “But I do not like this situation. I like that,” she gestured to the page lying before him, “even less. Lord Vauthry is not to be trusted, my lord.”

“So formal?”

She frowned at him. “I feel like you are not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am taking it quite seriously, my dear.” The Exarch stood, and came around the desk. He looked up at her, and reached up to tap the end of her nose, a gesture from her childhood that still got the same reaction now as it had when she was half his height and not towering over him.

She wrinkled up her nose and then laughed quietly. Her hand came up to rest on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“I think,” he told her, “that I shall have to pay Lord Vauthry a visit.” He held up one hand. “The twins are still in residence; I shall enlist their aid. This Tower still has a few little tricks remaining, but they are not the sort that I can ask you to help me activate.” He patted her hand. “If you would be so kind as to fetch them, I will receive them in the Ocular, and tell you all the plan then.”

“Only if you will eat first,” Lyna demanded.

The Exarch laughed aloud. “Very well, my little snowflake. I will eat while you collect our young guests.”

“You want to _what?_ ”

Alisaie's arms were crossed, her brows knit together in a frown – but it was a milder frown than the last time she had scowled in his presence. Alphinaud's head was tilted to one side, as he pondered the Exarch's words.

“I presume you have some way of accomplishing this deception, else you would not be proposing it at all,” he said slowly, “and that you require our aid in so doing. What would you have of us?”

The Exarch smiled gently at the young man. “I do require some small magical aid.” He turned toward Alisaie and gave her a tiny bow. “I had hoped to request that you aid Captain Lyna in watching over the outer chambers of the Tower. I shall be quite vulnerable during this effort, and there is no telling whether Vauthry has sent minions here to attempt an assassination.”

“He has tried in the past,” Lyna added, her gray eyes dark. “Though I believe I already know who among the people of the Crystarium are his spies, I am not so foolish as to leave anything to chance.”

Alisaie's frown vanished. “Oh. Well, I didn't realize.” She glanced at her brother, who was very pointedly not looking her way – the Exarch caught a glint of humor in Alphinaud's eye. Then, she cleared her throat, and nodded once. “Yes. I will guard you.”

“Thank you.”

“Come with me,” said Lyna, and the two women walked out of the Ocular, Lyna already speaking quietly to the red mage.

Alphinaud set one hand on his hip as he regarded the Exarch. “And what sort of task have you for me, then?”

“The basic notion,” the Exarch explained, as he turned towards the enormous mirror in the back of the room, “is that I shall project my presence into Lord Vauthry's city. To all appearances I shall be physically present, until I choose otherwise. However...”

He paused, and looked at the young scholar. “In order for me to do this, I will require someone to act as anchor, to stabilize the aether in this spot, so that I can safely perform the projection. Without such an anchor, I would merely teleport. I do not intend to leave myself at the tender mercies of Lord Vauthry's sin eaters.”

“A wise decision,” Alphinaud nodded. “Very well. Please, show me what you need me to do, and I shall give you my best effort.”

The Exarch smiled quietly, and began to demonstrate. The Sharlayan youth was a quick study – far faster than any other mage the Exarch had ever worked with in all his long life. He had been told that the twins were prodigies. Now, he believed it.

He gestured, and a small table laden with a few bottles appeared at the edge of the dais on which they stood. “Restoratives,” he explained. “I may be quite wearied by this, and I would appreciate it if – ”

“Of course.” Alphinaud smiled, a real and quite charming smile. The Exarch found himself smiling back, glad beyond expectation that at least one more of the Scions had warmed to him at last.

“Then, with you watching my back as it were, I shall be certain of my safe return.”

The chambers of the Lord of Eulmore were, as always, opulent. Succulent fruits were piled high on massive platters of pure gold. Exquisite wines in jeweled bottles rested in sweating silver buckets filled with ice. Marble urns almost as tall as a man held profusions of roses and lilies. Every surface in sight was immaculately clean, every bit of metal polished to a high shine.

To the Exarch's senses, the throne room carried a faint stench – something unpleasant but not quite identifiable. A miasma hung in the air, making the thousands of candles seem dimmer than they ought to be. There was a tang in the back of his throat, as if blood had been recently spilled. All of it added up to an overall impression of dark, rotting madness. Beneath his robes, his tail fur was brushed out and his ears were flat to his head. Everything about this room screamed to his instincts of mortal danger; the man before him, and the trappings all around him, were naught but cheap tinsel covering a slaughterhouse.

But he kept his tone gentle, kept his posture unperturbed. He drew Vauthry out, let the man ramble for many minutes, as if his honeyed words were not vilest venom beneath a sugary coating. He even made an attempt – however futile – to persuade Lord Vauthry that his insistent protection of the sin eaters was quite simply not the correct course of action.

He was aware even as he concluded his speech that Vauthry's temper was about to boil over.

He was relieved that he had initiated the spell of return before he'd begun his speech, seeing black aether gathered around Vauthry's right hand as the fat lord ranted. He held the power taut, ready to let go at any instant, and heard the confirmation from the lord's own lips that his men had indeed been ordered to attack the Warrior and her companions.

“The people of this world,” Vauthry snarled at last, “are _mine_ to rule, _mine_ to command – and _you are no exception!_ ”

His right hand raised, but the Exarch was already releasing the spell. He retained just enough awareness of the surroundings to hear the crackle of aether passing through where he had been – and to hear Vauthry begin to curse.

It was well that Alphinaud was standing by, for when the Exarch returned fully to his body in the Tower, he staggered and went to his knees at once.

The young scholar propped him up with one arm, and then had to nearly force a restorative potion down the Exarch's throat. The Exarch did his best to cooperate, but his limbs were twitching unpredictably and he was having trouble breathing. As he swallowed the bitter potion, and panted harshly, he could feel the crackle in his leg; it meant his crystal had crept further along his flesh. The Tower granted him much – but its gifts came at a cost. One day... He shuddered a little, and pretended it was only his weakness.

Alphinaud kept one hand on the older man's shoulder for a few minutes, as the Exarch sat on the floor and panted for air. But when at last the hooded mage coughed and began to get to his feet, Alphinaud stepped back and let him stand on his own.

“What news, then?” he asked, his tone calm; the return of the Warrior, and the time spent with her, truly had done much to improve Alphinaud's attitude towards the Exarch.

A pity the same could not be said for Alisaie. The thought brought a small, weary smile to the Exarch's lips.

“The gambit has paid off,” he told Alphinaud. “If you would, inform Captain Lyna and your sister. The Captain should know what to do next.”

With this encounter, the battle lines were well and truly drawn. Lord Vauthry had made an attempt on the Exarch's life. There would be no going back, no parley, no peace. Not until Vauthry was dead.

“Will you be all right alone?”

The Exarch's lips twisted a little at the reluctance in the scholar's tone. “Quite all right. I shall go and rest, and replenish my energies.”

“Very well.” Alphinaud nodded, and then left the Ocular without further discussion.

The Exarch sighed, and let his aether carry him to his bedchamber.

But when he materialized, he was in the smaller bedchamber, the one where he had trysted with the Ascian in the past. He blinked around, blearily, and then shrugged. It didn't matter. There was a bed here, and he needed to rest.

He made it to the bed: but before he could shed his robes, he found his sight going dim, his head spinning. The last thing he saw was the surface of the bed, rising up fast to meet his face.


	31. Bad Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch stepped out of his portal and stood for a moment in the orchard, listening with all of his formidable senses. The Tower was showing no signs of distress, though it was also not quiescent – he had expected to find it thrumming and chiming as it had done when the Exarch made that so-foolish attempt to explore the edges of the Rift.

For he had watched in silence and shadow as the Exarch confronted Lord Vauthry. He had seen, and heard, all that had transpired. He had known when the Exarch had become partially incorporeal, known that the mage was hovering on the cusp of teleportation. If Vauthry were not the belligerent infant he was, he could have used his own exquisitely sensitive aether perceptions to do the same.

But Emet-Selch had not suggested the creation of Vauthry in pursuit of an intelligent minion. He was nothing really but a superior form of sin eater, a beast easily trained into the role the Ascians required of him. He was educated, powerful, and utterly without remorse or mercy. He could – and would, left unchecked – bring every surviving soul on the First into his fold...and devour them all. A slower, prettier death than being mauled by claw and fang – but death all the same.

The Oracle had thrown quite a wrench into the plan, stopping the Flood as she had – but Emet-Selch could have worked around _that_. The world should after all have continued to spiral into desperation and chaos: halting the active phase of the Calamity had been nothing but a delaying tactic.

The Crystarium – merely by existing – had surprised Emet-Selch quite thoroughly. The Tower had appeared mere weeks after the halting of the Flood. But it had instantly gathered to itself every survivor in Lakeland, and its influence had swiftly rippled outward. He had to admit: it had been quite foolish to ignore it as just another settlement. Then again, his attention had been focused mostly on the creation and proper training of Vauthry. Thirty-five years, by the reckoning of this star – something more akin to a long afternoon for beings like himself. Things in Eulmore had been going so very well that Emet-Selch had taken the opportunity to relax for the last five years.

And now...his lip curled. The fat fool had almost tipped their hand. It was no part of Emet-Selch's plans that the Exarch learn precisely what the Lord of Eulmore really was. Whatever else was true about the Exarch, he was not a fool, and he was dangerously clever. Given information like that, he would divine Emet-Selch's true purpose in “supporting” the Warrior in her little endeavor.

He would not risk losing the Exarch to some moralistic nonsense about saving the dratted woman from her own stupidity. No, that would not do at all...and so he had kept watch over his beast.

Now, he came here, to look in on his beloved.

He searched for that bright soul, so dense and so very fascinating to him. He was mildly bemused to find the Exarch within the bedchamber they had shared. He stepped into a portal, and stepped back out to appear beside the bed.

He gazed down at the Exarch with a small frown creasing his brows. Spots of hectic color stained pale cheeks, and the man had all but collapsed onto the bed, his staff still in his hand.

He removed his gloves and his jacket, tossing them aside, and went to one knee beside the bed.

His aether flowed slowly over the inert form on the mattress. His bare fingers pressed gently, massaging even as he assessed the Exarch's state.

Exhaustion...and aether drain as well. The Exarch was in little danger of real harm, but Emet-Selch found himself doing something he had not done for a long, long time.

He softened his aether, lightened it, transmuted his energy into something the Exarch's body could absorb. His aetheric signature was black-purple normally, but now a gentle glow of silvery green issued from his fingertips and soaked into the man on the bed. Even as he sent another pulse of gentle healing across his lover's body, he plucked the silken robes loose and pulled them away.

Oh, he could of course have simply snapped his fingers and removed the things. He could have lifted the Exarch with aether – or even physically, the scarlet haired mage weighed next to nothing. But he wanted to take his time. There was no need to rush, and how often would he see his dearest enemy so unguarded, after all?

He sighed softly as he traced the boundaries where crystal met flesh, and marked how the tracing of blue along the great vein in his leg had grown larger, encompassing most of his knee and a good portion of the thigh. He had a feeling that even if he asked about this slow transformation, the Exarch would give only the most evasive answers. He was most stubborn about holding on to his secrets.

Emet-Selch arranged the smaller man on the bed, and shed a bit more of his own clothing, until he wore only the tight-fitting carbon-weave trousers. Then, he climbed into the bed and tucked his body against the Exarch's own, and continued to slowly renew the scarlet-haired mage's energies.

After all, he did not want the Exarch to spend too much time thinking about what he had seen in the throne room back in Eulmore. What better, more pleasurable way to distract the man's mind than by fucking him senseless?

What better way to bind that beautiful bright soul? For Emet-Selch did not intend that the Exarch develop any notion of severing their association. He would not coerce him, and he could not exactly protect him – not in the present circumstances. So he would weave the gentlest of nets around the Exarch – inflame his passions, feed his lust, nurture his need until it bloomed into addiction, obsession. Crude methods, perhaps, but if they were effective, Emet-Selch would not scruple to use them.

He had searched for a soul like the Exarch's for thousands of years. He would not – _could not_ – lose this lover.

Smiling, he whispered into the silky scarlet hair, his breath ruffling the fur of one ear.

“Wake up, my love.”


	32. I Hate Myself for Loving You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch opened his eyes. He was wrapped in a warm embrace. His clothes were missing. Someone was crooning into his ear, and dark aether was dancing along his nerves.

Emet-Selch.

“Come now, my dear,” the Ascian murmured. “Time to awaken.”

The Exarch blinked twice. He noticed first that all of his exhaustion was gone. Just after that realization: the hard readiness of his cock, the tingle running along his veins. His body, it seemed, had _risen_ long before he opened his eyes.

The timing of the Ascian's visit could not be coincidental. Emet-Selch surely had spies in Eulmore, or other more esoteric means of learning that the Exarch had paid Lord Vauthry a visit. There was no way that the ruler of Eulmore was not in league with the Ascian on some level – witting or not. It was therefore highly unlikely that Emet-Selch was here for sex.

Elegant fingers stroked the Exarch's cock gently. Well. Not for sex alone.

With an effort the Exarch tugged his attention back to considering how to react.

Emet-Selch was here, because Emet-Selch knew that the Exarch had visited Eulmore. He had likely listened in on the conversation, or had other means of gaining accurate information as to what had transpired in the throne room. Therefore, he could not be here to ask any sort of honest question about that visit. The Tower had not summoned him here, either. So his primary purpose in coming to the Exarch had to be distraction, misdirection of some sort.

Misdirection from what? There was only one answer that came to mind. The Ascian did not want the Exarch to think closely on what he had just seen and heard.

Therefore, the Exarch was going to examine every second of his audience with Vauthry.

But first...he must convince the Ascian that his misdirection was working.

“Are you stooping to molesting me in my sleep, now?” he asked the Ascian, but he could not help himself: laughter threaded through his words.

“At times it seems the only way to get your attention off that seedy sell-sword of which you are so fond.”

“Jealousy ill becomes you, Ascian.” The Exarch wriggled, then, rubbing himself shamelessly against the Ascian's groin. He laughed quietly at the way Emet-Selch hissed.

It was a dangerous game, striving to deceive an Ascian. The danger lent an extraordinary thrill to every little touch, every sigh, as the Exarch turned in Emet-Selch's arms and kissed him lustily.

The scarlet-haired mage traced the line of the Ascian's throat with little flutters of his tongue, and fastened his mouth on one dusky flat nipple. Long fingers tangled in his hair.

“My, my,” the Ascian rumbled, “how amorous you are today, my dear.”

“I'm sure you had nothing to do with that.” The Exarch teased the other nipple, flicking his tongue across the pebbled flesh, then nipping gently. “After all, you are a terrible, wicked Ascian, determined to bend me to your will, no?”

He splayed the fingers of his crystalline hand across the smooth chest, and pushed, so that Emet-Selch lay on his back.

“Ah, but as you see,” the Ascian purred, “it is I who bends to your will.”

“For the moment.” The Exarch's tone was absent, as he concentrated on tugging at the clinging carbon-weave trousers. “We both know what you're really...”

His voice trailed off as Emet-Selch's cock sprang free of confinement. The Exarch _pounced_ on the larger man, wrapping his fingers around the thick shaft and greedily wrapping his lips around the head. He ran the tip of his tongue all along the bottom edge of the glans, and Emet-Selch bucked his hips, hands clenching in scarlet hair, just shy of grabbing the Exarch's ears.

Emet-Selch murmured, in the Allagan tongue. “How wondrous that tongue of yours, beloved.”

Beloved?

The Exarch kept lavishing attentions on the flesh between his lips, but his eyes flicked up to glance at the Ascian. A shudder ran through him as he saw the adoration in Emet-Selch's golden eyes.

There was an ache in his chest, at once sweet and frightening. When had he begun to think of this man as something other than an adversary? By the Twelve, was he mad enough to truly feel affection for this monster in the shape of a man?

No, that could not be true. This was merely two bodies meeting to assuage a hunger – easing their loneliness in each other, nothing more.

The phrasing almost made him choke.

Emet-Selch sat up, gently tugging the Exarch away, kissing him deeply. The Exarch flung himself into the sensations, not wanting to confront the emotions roiling beneath the physical.

He was not in love with the Ascian. The very notion was absurd. The man was using him – seducing him – and would betray him the moment he had extracted what he really wanted.

All that the Exarch need do was make Emet-Selch believe he was in the Ascian's thrall. Soon enough, all the secrets that the Ascian lusted after would die, along with the Exarch. It would not be much longer before his plan came to full fruition.

He could lie with his body just as well as with his mouth, after all. And what difference did it make, adding one more lie to the veritable tower of falsehoods that propped up so much of his life now? Lying to the Scions. Lying to the Warrior.

For an instant, he hated himself, hated everything about the situation. He had been a man to respect, once. What was he now?

_I am a liar. But I am a liar who is going to save the world, before I die for my sins. Adding Emet-Selch to that list of sins makes no difference at all._

Let the Ascian whisper words of love to him, then. Let the man delude himself. When the time came, not even Emet-Selch would be able to stop what the Exarch had put in motion.


	33. Eyes Without a Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

“The others were asking after you.”

You stare at the Exarch for a long moment. You have a hard time believing that any of the Scions _asked after you_ , not when Y'Shtola had summarily ordered you to go to bed not half a bell ago. Not when you were dead certain she had every intention of discussing the state of your aether with the other Scions, even if not with the Exarch. The twins would have made their way here personally if they wished to check in on you.

Something else is going on.

You lean your shoulder against your door, not letting him into the room, and cross your arms. He has his hood up, of course, standing here in the Pendants as he is. But you can still read his posture, if not his face. He is anxious, and trying to hide it.

“Has your pain passed?”

Your eyes narrow. You had not mentioned pain. Not even to Y'Shtola. Abruptly you realize that he _knows_ what is happening to you.

“You son of a bitch.” You say the words with quiet venom. The Exarch starts and his mouth opens, but you speak again before he can reply. “How much longer are you going to twist the truth, Exarch?” You straighten, your hands falling to your sides and clenching into fists. “Or are you here to finally come clean?”

“I had thought to ease any discomfort you may be suffering. I see that you are not in need of such aid, however.”

How dare he speak to you as if you are _ungrateful?_

“What I need is information, Exarch.” You continue to keep your voice down. You shan't cause a scene that might undermine the man's authority among his people; the city can ill afford such instability, especially now. But by the Twelve, you have had enough of this. “ _Information_ , not mind games. I already know you are using me, if you will kindly recall. What reason is there for you to keep me in the dark about just what I risk as I continue to take down Wardens? Why would you not at least warn me, that I might find some way to prepare myself, or seek ways to handle the _discomfort_ for myself?” It is getting harder to contain your temper. You bite down your next words, and try to breathe, to calm yourself. Three Light-wardens have died by your hand now. Their power is like a restless snake inside of your personal aether, coiled and sleeping but fitfully. Your rage is beginning to rouse the serpent.

“I gave you what information I could,” he answers. You can see his hand tightening into a fist of his own. “I told you, at the very start, that everyone who had killed a Warden had then absorbed its aether, and that doing so had turned them.”

“You led me to believe that I would not suffer the same fate, you bastard.” Your temper breaks, and though you still do not raise your voice, you are no longer watching your words. “You kidnap my friends, you nearly get me killed with your damned Calling, you drag me to this place and extort my help from me, using my friends as hostages. And atop all of that, you _dare_ to lie to me this way? Did you really think I would not notice the alterations in my own aether, that the Scions would not notice?”

He steps back a pace, but he snaps right back at you. “I am sure even you understand the notion that one's information may change over time. When this began, I did not know – ”

“Shut up,” you snarl. “Every word that falls from your lips is a fucking lie. I don't care to listen to any more of it, not tonight at the very least.” You spit at his feet. “And if you are here to have sex with me, you can forget that too. _Nothing_ you can offer me will ever be recompense enough for all the things you've done to me and mine.”

His back is stiff and his mouth is tight, but his tone is as mild as ever. “As you wish, Warrior.” And without another word, he turns on his heel and walks away. There is nothing in his stride to indicate any anger. If you did not know him as you do, you would believe him to be quite calm.

You stare after him, and fight down tears. The bitter resignation your rage was covering now rises in you, like bile. Better this way, it is better this way, isn't it? Better to stop demanding things of him that make him cry when he thinks you asleep. Better to remove the thorn of your presence from his side. You are doing the right thing, putting distance between the two of you.

Anger blossoms anew in you as you try to stave off the hateful tears. He does not love you. He never loved you. This truly is the best course of action. Break the enchantment you've put on yourself, before it becomes habit, addiction, obsession. And if he is upset? _Let him be upset_. He has richly earned his suffering. Or so you tell yourself as he vanishes from your line of sight.

A part of you is weeping, insisting that this is not breaking a _habit_ , it is breaking your _heart_.

Your lip curls as you snarl at that inner weakling, and you just barely manage not to slam your door.


	34. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

The Exarch was pacing. His ears were flat to his head and he clasped his hands so tightly behind his back that his knuckles were white. He did not speak, merely measured out an exact set of fourteen paces, back and forth, in front of his favorite bench in the orchard.

Emet-Selch simply watched for a little while. He had not heard the argument directly yesterday, but he had heard _about_ it, for the two youngest Scions had spoken of it in front of his feathered spy. It seemed that the Warrior had begun to fathom the risks inherent in this plan of the Exarch's, and she was most displeased. Displeased enough, it seemed, to vent to her friends as well as unloading her temper on the Exarch.

He did not know exactly what she had said, but clearly it was still upsetting the Exarch, if his agitated stomping was any indicator.

 _Enough of this_.

“Well, and what storm is this I see on your brow, dear Exarch?”

The smaller man startled, then turned away from him. “You are always so rude,” he grumbled. “You should not frighten a poor old man with your popping into existence, as if out of thin air.”

Emet-Selch reached out and laid his hands on the Exarch's shoulders. His thumbs pressed gently in circles, soothing the tension. The man must have quite a headache by now, if he had been clenching his jaw this hard all day. “Come now,” he murmured, “I know you are not so terrified of me as all that.”

The Exarch stood still, and after a moment, he sighed. His shoulders bent under Emet-Selch's ministrations; his head bowed, and his ears drooped, despondent.

“What is it that troubles you so?” Emet-Selch asked, keeping his tone sympathetic.

“It is...” The Exarch sighed again. “I will not insult you by prevaricating. The Warrior and I had a – falling out, yesterday. I find myself at a bit of a loss as to how to handle the situation, just now.”

“Ignore the little tramp.”

“She is not a tramp!” The Exarch spun around, glaring. “You know nothing of her, Ascian. Do not insult her so casually.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Emet-Selch smirked. “I shall take greater care in choosing my insults.”

“I do not understand why you are toying with her the way you are, and I do wish you would not trouble her or the Scions any further.” The Exarch's plush lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Though I know full well that you will not listen to my wishes.”

“Not that one,” Emet-Selch agreed. Then he reached out and tugged the Exarch close, wrapping him in a warm embrace. “But there are a few of your wishes I am most intent upon fulfilling.”

The Exarch scoffed, pushing ineffectually at the Ascian's chest. “Blow me, Emet-Selch.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Emet-Selch grinned salaciously as the Exarch blushed.

“That is not what I meant – you cannot possibly intend – ”

Emet-Selch pushed the smaller man down onto the bench. Dark aether curled toward the Exarch, nudging his knees wide apart, pinning his hands gently so that he could do nothing other than lean on the bench and watch as the Ascian knelt on the grass.

The scarlet-haired mage stared, licking his lips, as Emet-Selch pushed the black and scarlet robes up onto his knees. Leaning in, Emet-Selch planted a lusty kiss on those plush lips, and then lowered his head, using his aether to make his own posture easier, more comfortable.

He looked up into those ruby eyes, and said, “You really must explain to me, my dear, why you spend so much energy on that woman. Why must you sway her to your cause? You hold all the cards in this situation. Her friends' souls are in your care. You could kill them at any time with the merest wisp of power. Why not make that clear to her? Compel her service to your needs, and you save yourself much expenditure of resources and energy alike.”

“I would never harm the Scions. I never intended that they be here on the First at all.”

“Ah, but you could always make them all believe that you are willing to harm them. After all, it matters not if you truly follow through on the threat – not with their so-predictable tendency to rush in and protect one another. She would bend to your will like a reed in the river if you merely applied the leverage you hold in the proper manner.”

“I do not wish to leverage her,” the Exarch began, and then gasped as Emet-Selch ducked his head down and out of sight between his legs.

The Ascian took that elegant cock in his hand, and stroked gently, provoking another gasp.

“You lavish such attention on her,” he murmured. “Why?”

At first the Exarch did not answer, too busy moaning as the Ascian licked the head of his cock, running the tip of his tongue under the rim of the glans, teasing the sensitive flesh.

The Ascian's senses noticed motion, somewhat behind them. The Warrior's aether was distinctive – stained with Light as it was, she was incredibly obvious to him, though to physical sight she was likely well hidden. She was watching the two of them.

Emet-Selch smiled.

“Come now, my crystalline companion, tell me. What do you really see in her?”


	35. Look Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may recognize this, yes, this was the beginning of the trouble that became this fic!

Your mother told you never to eavesdrop. Yet, here you are...and you cannot _believe_ what you're hearing.

You had seen him strolling off into the orchards, one of his favorite places to go and simply enjoy the quiet. You had followed, furtively, hoping to catch him alone and...

But the Exarch is, demonstrably, not alone.

“Come now, my crystalline companion, tell me. What do you really see in her?”

The voice is smooth – velvety – sensuous – venomous. You know that voice: the Ascian.

Your hands curl into fists but you stand rooted to the spot, leaning up against the trunk of the oak tree, trapped by your own foolishness. If you move, even to run away...

Emet-Selch speaks again. “What do you _see_ in her, Exarch? She is only a hero to others. Never to you, hmm?”

“Do not speak thus of her. She is...very important to me.”

Your ears burn. Then you hear the unmistakable sound – the Exarch groans. You _know_ his groan, you have pulled that sound from his lips how many times as he kissed you...

All of you burns, now.

A gasp. Is that a rustle of cloth, or just wind in the leaves?

“Not...not _here_ , damn your eyes.”

“Oh yes. Here and now.”

“Can you not wait until I am in private at least – ”

Another gasp.

“I have waited _enough_. And you want this, every bit as much as I do. I can feel it in your aether.”

The Exarch moans. You have heard that moan before too. That was the moan he made for you, when you took his cock in your hand and...

Twelve preserve you, your smalls are damp.

Damn it! You had only followed after the Exarch because you wanted to apologize. Firmly, you shove the _other_ thing out of your mind.

Unfortunately it does not obey your will – not with the sound of the Exarch's pleasure in your ears. And then, incredibly – he _whines_.

“Wh-why...?”

“I shall only continue, dear Exarch, when you have answered my question. What is it you see in that scruffy adventurer?”

“She is not _scruffy_. She is charmingly unsophisticated. Straightforward. And – ah! – she is...my inspiration...”

You can't help yourself, you can't resist any longer. You ease yourself along the tree trunk, edging closer so that you can peek around. You don't want to look, but you have to see...

And you do see. You see the Exarch leaning back on his hands on a wide bench, hood down, ears flattened, his head tilted back. You see the Exarch's robes, rucked up, exposing ankles and teasing at a hint of knee.

You see an all too familiar set of dark robes...on the ground...

You bite your hand to keep from making a noise.

Emet-Selch is brazen indeed. In broad daylight, in the middle of the Crystarium orchards, he has his head under the Exarch's robes and...and...

Another of those groans, with which you've become achingly familiar. The look on the Exarch's face makes your sex gush, even as the implied motion beneath his robes makes your mouth water with wanting.

But you mustn't let him know you're here, and so you plaster yourself against the trunk of your tree, and try not to whimper when he begins to speak once more.

“If not for her, there would be no hope for this world. If not for her I might never have come here.” He hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, his head bending down as if he would look at the man kneeling between his legs. “She is generous of spirit and – ah, gods-dammit – _hah_ – she has ever been a friend to me.” His mouth twists. “Not like _you_.”

Robes rustle, and Emet-Selch emerges, hair mussed, mouth slick with spit, and that damned smile on his face, that _smug fucking smile_ that made you want to punch him. “And what am I like, if not like your vaunted hero, hm?”

“I don't _know_ ,” and now the Exarch's groan is one of a man pushed to the limits of his patience. “I don't _know_ anymore why I allow you such liberties. I ought to hate you. We are adversaries, our goals can never align. I don't even _like_ you...!”

But even as he says it, he is stroking his adversary's face, sliding his thumb into that smarmy damned mouth, and Emet-Selch is taking that thumb and his cheeks are hollowing as he sucks, never breaking eye contact with the Exarch.

With a wet pop, Emet-Selch pulls his head back, and laughs quietly. “You may not like me, but you certainly like what I _do_ to you. Do you not?”

The Exarch bites his lip. Emet-Selch's smile widens. “I could,” his voice becomes silky with threat, “just stop right now, and leave.”

The Exarch's crystalline hand shoots out, his fingers knotting in the other's hair.

“ _Don't you dare leave me like this_.”

You are startled by the vehemence, by the way he growls the words, a deep rumble in his chest. He has never spoken to you like _that_.

“Then ask me _nicely_ , oh mighty Exarch. _Beg me_.”

The Exarch shudders.

“You are such a bastard,” he whispers. And then, even as his face reddens, “I beg of you, Emet-Selch. Wrap that wretched mouth around my cock and pleasure me. I would feel you swallowing my seed.”

Your vision wavers and you think you might faint.

Emet-Selch laughs – a laugh like none you have ever heard issue from the Ascian before. A _joyous_ laugh. And then his head vanishes beneath the Exarch's robes once more.

You cannot tear yourself away. Your hand has drifted down to your groin and you realize you're rubbing yourself through your clothes. Utterly shameful. Your face is burning with the shame of it. But your core is burning far hotter as you watch the Exarch's expressions.

You can only watch.

Watch as his eyes drift half closed. Watch as his hands make fists in his robes, dragging them up farther. Watch as he shifts his feet apart, the better to rock his hips into the mouth that pleasures him.

You can see a flash of thigh now and then as he moves.

Desire stabs through you. Heedless now of shame or risk of discovery, you shove your hand down until you can get your fingers on your dripping-wet sex. You still cannot pull your eyes away, even when you begin to rub your clit with urgent strokes.

The Exarch's crystalline hand is clutching at the head beneath his robes, now; he is fucking Emet-Selch's face. Is this how he looks, when he begins to lose control, when it is _you_ sucking on that lovely cock? For you have always thought his cock lovely, even before this insane situation came about. You wish for a moment that it was _you_ kneeling on the grass, _you_ driving him to this frenzy...

His eyes open wide and he cries out, that sweet cry that you know too well. Your own orgasm flashes across you like a squall front, crashing through your body as you imagine that it is _you_ swallowing spurt after spurt of hot come...

His eyes meet yours. _He sees you._

Not only can you not move, not run away – you collapse to your knees as you come a second time just from the look on his face. Tears spangle your cheeks, tears of shame and jealousy and sweet relief.

Emet-Selch disentangles himself from silken robes, and looks over his shoulder.

“So good of you to actually join us, hero. I trust you are _enjoying_ yourself.”


	36. Sugar We're Goin' Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

“So good of you to actually join us, hero. I trust you are _enjoying_ yourself.”

The woman was on her knees, face red, cheeks gleaming with tears in the afternoon light. She was pulling her hand out of her trousers, fumbling to fasten them, trying to get to her feet at the same time and nearly falling over. It was quite the most comical sight, and Emet-Selch laughed aloud.

The Exarch stared at her, his own face quite pink, ears flat, body tense. He did not laugh along with Emet-Selch.

The Warrior finally staggered to her feet, still blushing so strongly the Ascian wondered idly if she might faint. Her mouth opened, and a sound emerged – a croak rather than anything coherent.

Emet-Selch smiled, a wide and unkind smile, a venomous smile. “Perhaps you would like to explain why you did not simply announce your presence? After all...it is so very rude to eavesdrop, isn't it...or perhaps that was your intention all along.”

“N-no, I – I didn't mean – ” She swallowed hard. “I didn't know he wasn't alone.”

“Ah, so you are upset now because you wanted to be in my place, is that it?” Emet-Selch laughed again, seeing how the Warrior's blush was spreading all the way down her neck to her collarbone. The revealing clothing of which she was so fond did little to hide the evidence of her discomfiture. He struck a bit of a pose, as if astonished, and looked over at the Exarch.

“I had no idea the Warrior of Darkness was so perverted. Did you?”

The Exarch blinked twice as if waking from a trance, and shook his head. “Don't,” he began, and then stopped speaking, arrested by the rather alarming noise the Warrior was making.

Even Emet-Selch cocked an eyebrow. She sounded like she was going to choke to death.

“I'm – sorry – ” She clapped a hand over her mouth, spun on her heel, and fled.

Emet-Selch laughed once more. Then, he turned back to the Exarch, reaching out to caress him.

The Exarch shifted away from his touch. “You should not have laughed at her,” he told Emet-Selch. His ruby eyes were dazed, but there was something in his voice – was it anger?

“And why not?” Emet-Selch asked, shrugging. “It is so entertaining to see a hero fall flat on her face, even if only metaphorically.”

“You did not need to be cruel, Ascian.”

Emet-Selch's eyes flashed. “Oh, but have you forgotten, dear Exarch? Cruelty is an art for we Ascians.” He stepped closer. “Let us forget about the so-called hero, hmm? After all, you and I were not yet finished,” he chuckled, “with our discussion.”

“I have nothing further to discuss with you,” the Exarch snapped. “Not today.” He started to move away, but the Ascian stepped into his path and set his hands on the smaller man's shoulders.

“And you claim I am the rude one.” Emet-Selch clucked his tongue. “Do you truly wish to chase after that little fool, who clearly does not appreciate your power or respect you? What does she offer you that I cannot provide, after all?” The Ascian leaned close, lips feathering across the Exarch's mouth. “What can _she_ do, that I cannot do ten, a hundred times better?”

“I need – ” The Exarch took a deep breath and stepped back. “I still require her for certain plans of my own, and I do not care to court disaster by allowing her to storm off and never return to the First.” His voice was harsh. “ _Now_ _ **if**_ _you will excuse me_.”

Emet-Selch stared as the smaller man pulled back completely, turned on his heel, and walked swiftly out of the orchard.

 _Oh, I am not about to countenance this. I may have to deal with the little bitch personally_.


	37. Crying in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You are back in your own suite at the Pendants.

You don't quite remember getting here. You stand in the middle of the room, panting for breath, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Weeping.

You do not know if you weep with rage or shame or hurt or all of them at once.

You stagger into the bathing room of your suite, stripping out of clothes damp with sweat and your own slick. You reek of lust and humiliation.

You turn on the shower, as hot as you can stand it. You get in and you don't even wash, you just stand there, your back to the spray, hands on the wall, leaning, still weeping.

How could he? How could the Exarch – _your Exarch_ – stoop so low as to fuck the _enemy?_

That Emet-Selch would make the offer in the first place did not, in fact, surprise you. He was an Ascian, and there was nothing an Ascian would not do if it meant destabilizing the situation. And if it meant hurting you, all the better.

But why – gods above and below – _why had the Exarch agreed?_

Was it because you picked a fight with him yesterday? Had he turned to Emet-Selch for solace after your unfair and unkind words...?

But no, that could not be so. There had been definite _familiarity_ in the way the two men had spoken to each other. This was not the first time Emet-Selch had touched the Exarch. Not the first time he had wrapped that accursed mouth around the cock that ought to be only for you.

 _Rage_.

 _Jealousy_.

You snarl, muscles quivering. If you could get your hands on that damned Ascian...

But then you recall how he laughed at you.

Laughed, as you scrambled to your feet, face flaming. Laughed as you had gargled an attempt at an apology, and then turned around and _fled_.

You cannot deny it now. You had run away. Like a child caught misbehaving.

Like a spurned lover in some sentimental melodrama.

 _Humiliation_.

You sink to your knees, the hot water beating your skin, your emotions beating against the inside of your skull.

_Had the Exarch thought of Emet-Selch when he was fucking you?_


	38. Let Her Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

He strode through the Crystarium, and struggled to maintain the illusion that nothing was wrong. He paused to respond to those who approached him, smiled and spoke politely and sent them on their way, just the same as any other day.

He did not show any outward sign of how badly shaken he felt. The way she had snarled at him yesterday still stung, not least because she was not wrong. He had kept information from her, he had lied to her – so many times over, now.

He had been so lonely, for so long. So starved for touch, for affection, that even the advances of an enemy had at last been too tempting to resist. He had never intended to care for that damned Ascian. Their association was to have been nothing more than mutual easing of lust. He had let his guard down, had let his body fool his mind, and now – now, his Warrior surely thought him a traitor at best. He must talk to her, must reassure her – somehow.

He dared not tell her the truth.

He could not bear to lie to her any longer.

How was he to reconcile what he needed her to do with the plain fact that he _needed_ her?

He contemplated the door before him, and considered blasting it out of his way. He had the power to do so, after all. This was his Tower. But no. Better to persuade the Warrior to open the door.

The moment the door opened, he was through it, slamming it shut, binding it with wards to keep out interruptions and ensure silence.

His heart pounded as he pressed against her. He was torn between anger and embarrassment and lust. Anger because she had had the audacity to spy on him – embarrassment because she'd caught him in an act he would much rather she had never known about. And _lust_... His cock twitched as he remembered again how her hand had been shoved down beneath her clothing, how her eyes had been blown wide, how her lip had been bitten, making it bloom and swell as if she'd been kissed hard. How she had come right before his eyes.

He would make her do it again, before he left here. As many times as she would let him. He would prove his feelings to her with his body, until she could not possibly doubt his love for her.

He only hoped the taste of her would drive all thoughts of Emet-Selch out of his head.


	39. Just Give Me A Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

Clean, on the outside at least. Wrapped in the ridiculously fluffy white robe that apparently came with the room. Feet stuffed into sheepskin slippers.

You stare out your window into the meaningless distance, your eyes sore and your mind tired.

You do not want to think about the state of your heart.

Someone taps on your door. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I know you are in there. Please, let me in.” The Exarch's voice, laden with tension under the calm; he is doubtless here to rail at you for what you've done.

Your own voice is a croak. “No.”

“I _will_ stand out here in the hallway and yell at you through your door.”

“Go away.”

“I shall not. Let me in.”

Your feet are carrying you to the door, despite your wish to stay as far from it as possible. You do not want to see his face. You will gaze at the floor and tell him to go away and slam the door and lock it. That is all.

You open the door.

Before you can so much as open your mouth, he has shoved past you, moving around you almost as if dancing. The door slams shut and you can feel his powers barricading it.

Then your face is pressed against the wood of the door, you are pinned between door and Exarch, his hands imprisoning you, his chest against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The Light within you, torn from three dying Wardens, shivers as if it would strike at him.

“You and I are going to talk,” he tells you, his voice rough with emotion. “Or rather, I will talk. _You_ will listen.”

“Let go of me.” But your words are dull and without heat. You do not want him to let go. You want his hands on you, you want... “I don't want to hear what you have to say.” Truth, ringing cold as crystal on the air.

You don't want to _listen_ to him.

You want to fuck him senseless, ride him until both of you are too raw to continue. You want to make him come and come and _come,_ until he forgets Emet-Selch exists. You want him to make _you_ come, until the hurt is soothed away.

“Do not attempt to play the victim,” he snarls. He presses against you, his head tucked against your shoulder and neck such that you cannot turn your head to look at him. His hands find yours, and you can feel him through his robes, through your own robe, feel his cock against your rear end.

“I am not _playing_ at anything,” you hiss back at him, but you cannot stop yourself from arching, shoving your rear harder against the gloriously stiff cock for which you hunger.

“I will remind you of what you told me, so very specifically, the last time we were in bed together.” His voice quivers, his body quivers, you feel him on the edge of losing control. “No more than two bodies meeting, you said. No promises. You did not want involvement, you wanted _fucking_.”

“I lied.” The tears distort your voice. “I fucking _lied_ , okay? I just didn't want to admit...didn't want to scare you off. Again.”

“Since when have you ever frightened me?” He sounds honestly surprised.

“Isn't that why you left the way you did?” You squeeze your eyes shut, but hot tears still escape. They scald against cheeks already raw. “All that talk about keeping Eorzea safe, but part of it was that you didn't want me to...to say...”

He no longer quivers. He is very, very still. “Say it, then.” The words are a mere breath of sound.

“Why? What would be the point? You don't want me, not really.”

His hands tighten on yours until you cry out, bones creaking underneath his crystalline fingers.

“ _Do not assume you know my heart_.” He is growling, the same way he had growled in the orchard, with Emet-Selch at his feet. “You have persuaded yourself that I do not wish to hear – but I very much want to hear you say it. Tell me.” He rattles your body with his own, grinding against you. “ _Tell me_.”

You cannot hold out. The tears choke you, but you cough the words out, through the shame and the pain and the sickening fear that you're right, that he _does not want you_ –

“I love you.”

“Louder.”

“What?” Your eyes pop open in shock.

“Say it again.” His voice rumbles against your ear. “Say it again, louder.”

“I – I – I love you...”

“Say it again. Make me _believe_ you.”

A sob racks your body. He is merciless, and does not let go, does not ease his grip on your hands.

“Why are you making me do this? Do you just like hearing me cry?”

“ _ **Fucking say it**_.”

The way he snarls that in your ear electrifies you, terrifies you, enrages you. Your mouth opens and a desperate tumble of words crowd their way out into the air.

“I love you, okay? I love you, Raha, Exarch, whatever you want me to call you. I loved you then, and _you fucking left me._ I knew you the instant I saw you, of course I fucking knew who you were, and I played your damned game. I didn't want to lose you again so _I fucking lied_ and gods dammit I _love_ you and _I wish I didn't!!_ ”

You lean against the door, letting him hold most of your weight, limp and gasping for air and choking on tears. He will drop you now, you think. He will be disgusted by this sniveling, babbling mess that you've become. He will let go of you, sneer, and walk out of your life once again. To be with Emet-Selch.

Because he does not love you. He never did.

Sure enough, his hands leave yours, his weight ceases to press you into your door.

But before you can slide to the floor, he catches you, turns you, scoops you up in his arms. Reflexively you put your arms around his neck, astonished that he is carrying you. He is laying you on your own bed before you can formulate a single word.

And then he is kneeling over you, his hands on your face, ruby eyes gazing down intently.

You can see water on his cheeks, but he looks furious.

“How dare you assume you know my mind, my heart, without once asking me?”

His voice _sounds_ furious.

But his hands are tender, trembling; and the words he speaks now flutter across you, soft as doves' wings, bemusing as pixie dust.

“I have loved you with all my heart for more than a hundred years. I thought it was you who wanted no ties. I thought I was setting you free.”

He gives you no chance to answer. His mouth descends on yours, his body presses you into the mattress, and for an instant, for an eon, there is only him.


	40. Jealous Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small content warning, voyeurism in this chapter!

They were in bed together, so focused on each other that neither one of them noticed him. He leaned against the wall, and watched as their bodies strained against each other, watched their aether twine and twist in a grotesque imitation of the things an _unbroken_ soul could do.

The Exarch's hands skimmed across smooth flesh. His mouth was _everywhere_ , feathering kisses along her limbs, tonguing her nipples, teeth grazing at wrist or shoulder or the inside of her knee.

She writhed against him, over him, her own hands busy, her mouth tasting and exploring. She was a greedy little thief, taking such liberties with the flesh that by rights belonged to another. To _him_.

The Ascian's eyes narrow in anger when the Exarch rubs his cheek against hers before dragging his teeth down the line of her jaw. Such precious gestures should not be doled out to the unworthy.

Her robe fell open, and now she wriggled her arms free of it. She lay naked beneath the Exarch; and Emet-Selch could not deny that she had a lovely body, quite the equal of any mortal woman. The Exarch, meanwhile, was as yet only partially unclothed, having allowed the Warrior to peel away layers of silk until his left arm – the flesh arm – was exposed.

He hissed when she leaned up and latched onto his nipple. The Ascian heard her growl against her lover, and saw her nails digging in a little as she clung to his torso.

“I won't let you go again,” she mumbled.

_Daft girl. She still believes the Exarch is in her grasp? Does she so easily discount the influence of an Ascian?_

The Exarch tugged her up to take her mouth in another crushing kiss. When he let her go, he spoke one word against her lips; a word that made Emet-Selch stiffen with rage.

“ _Mine_.”

She whimpered, a lustful sound, and her nails scored his left shoulder, scraped against the crystalline planes of his right. “Only if you're mine, damn you.”

Leaning there, unseen, Emet-Selch seethed. _He is already taken, you slut. No matter what he tells you, the Exarch is_ _ **mine**_ _._

He could not help but bite his lip, however, when the Exarch grasped her head in his hand, and pressed her mouth to his flesh. “Mark me, then,” he demanded, his voice low and dark.

He did not have to ask twice. The vicious little savage sank her teeth into him, biting and sucking until he cried out. When she lifted her head, a dark mark was already rising on the pale skin. Aether crackled between them, and Emet-Selch felt his own body tightening, unable to stop his response to the things they were doing.

The Exarch moved suddenly, with such speed that the Warrior was still blinking even as that glorious scarlet-haired head dipped between her legs, his hands pressed her knees open and up, and his mouth fastened on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and –

“Ah!”

Emet-Selch shivered at the way she moaned, and for one instant he was sorely tempted to go to the bed, to join in. He could show this upstart Warrior a thing or two. The Exarch groaned as he let go of her flesh, leaving a bite mark on her thigh.

The Warrior shrieked as the Exarch buried his face against her sex, and ravished her with his tongue.

Clearly the Exarch was quite familiar with the woman. She was coming for him in mere moments, rolling her hips up as if offering supplication, hands buried in his hair.

Without allowing her to fully come down from her orgasm, the Exarch swarmed up her body, robes pulled askew, hair tangled, face still damp with her slick. She kissed him messily as he gripped her, raising her knees and pressing them even as he plunged inside of her.

She _howled_ with pleasure. _Like the beast she is_ , Emet-Selch thought, but his cock was achingly hard now and he could barely hold on to his disdain for her.

The Exarch's thrusts were wild, desperate, frantic; and he kissed her again and again. The Ascian watched as the two of them chased the pleasure with all the ferocity of wolves on a hunt, with all the single minded focus of foes in battle. The way they struggled against each other, the sounds they made, could have been love or hate, passion or rage.

The Warrior's cries built to a hysterical pitch. The Exarch cried out her name – once, twice – and then he pulled out of her, spilling his seed across her belly, groaning as if wounded near to death. Her arms wound around him and clutched him close. They both seemed to be oblivious to everything except each other.

Emet-Selch burned with anger and sexual frustration alike, and he suppressed a snarl as the Exarch pressed his forehead against the Warrior's lips and whispered her name one final time. She kissed him, and cradled him with arms and legs alike. Their aether tangled together, a messy and incomplete joining; and yet they both glowed with... No.

_No. I won't believe that selfish little savage is in love with my Exarch. He is blinded by some daft mortal sentiment. All I need do is prove to him how much better I am._


	41. Open Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch buried himself in his Warrior, panting and sweating and on the verge of tears.

She had lied to him. Oh, how glad he was that she had lied.

He wondered if he was more foolish for believing her lie to begin with, or for being so very happy to have learned the truth. Either way, he was a fool.

She had revealed everything to him, hiding nothing.

If only he dared to truly show her everything in return.

He made love to her, as ferociously as he could, but he could not make it last. He wanted to remain in her bed for the rest of his life. He wanted to continue to torment and delight her, to make her scream again and again – to taste her over and over, to feel her coming apart for him. He wanted her hands on him, wanted her to wreck him just as thoroughly as he would do to her. He was giddy with lust, dizzy from the myriad ways he could imagine making her come. He almost did not pull out of her when he came, for he was so very desperate to feel her in every possible way.

He withdrew from her, and lay beside her, both of them breathing hard. He kept his fingers tangled with hers. His aether tangled with hers as well, and his heart ached as he understood the depths of her suffering.

He had not known how much she treasured him, before. It was of course no excuse for the pain he had caused her... But if he had known, would he have chosen differently...?

No. He knew better than that. There had been only one solution to the immense problem the Tower offered up. He had not dared to wait, not with Nero on the scene. He would have preferred to trust the man – especially after his actions in the world of the voidsent. But there could be no denying that the Garleans might have had some kind of trace on Nero, of which the engineer was not aware. Assuming that the Empire did not have ears and eyes in every conceivable location had led to disaster before. Too much risk to leave himself even a day for his goodbyes.

But oh...oh how he wished it could have been otherwise.

Even in his stasis, he had dreamed of her. He had loved her for so, so long. He had believed, when he reawakened, that she was utterly beyond him – she had been _dead_ , then, in that time-line, that future that he now worked to ensure would _not_ come to pass.

He had never intended to let her know who he was, never meant to so much as hint to her that he had feelings for her. He was to have been merely the mysterious, possibly untrustworthy Crystal Exarch, a man she could resent and yet still work for... A person she could sacrifice without a second thought. That was his function, in his great plan, after all.

He found that acknowledging his love for her this way made the prospect of death strangely more bearable. She knew, now, that he had loved her all along. It might make losing him a second time sting a great deal more, and that was unfortunate. But he would leave this world knowing that she loved him, and somehow...somehow that was enough.

For as much as he believed that she loved him – for as much as he adored her – he could not deny that he had wronged her, too many times. He had wounded her too deeply to ever truly forgive him. He would remain grateful for the gift of truth she had given him, but he would not dream of more. All he needed to do now was prove his devotion to her, and preserve her soul's integrity as she took on more and more Light...he only needed her to survive a short time once the last Warden died. Then, he would solve all the problems of the First and avert the Calamity aimed at the Source, and though he would leave her bereft...it would be for the best.


	42. All Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

Many minutes pass, and you can only stare up the ceiling, too exhausted to turn your head and look at him. But at last, you speak.

“Why? Why _Emet-Selch_ of all people...?”

“I don't know. I honestly don't know. It just... _happened_.”

“How long?”

He is silent, and you force yourself to move, to turn on your side, to stare at him.

“How long have you been...?”

“Since just before you arrived here on the First.”

Your breath stills.

“When I – when we – have you thought about him while I – ”

He glares. “You have the filthiest mind. No. _Gods_ , no.”

“And why not?” A voice drawls. “I am, after all, far prettier than she is.”

You gasp and sit straight up, hands going for a weapon that isn't there.

Emet-Selch laughs.

The Exarch leans up, not bothering to straighten his robes, though he does drape a corner of the sheet across your body. His voice is weary. “You are also incredibly rude. A man of your _advanced age_ should behave better.”

The Ascian scoffs. “I am hardly bound by the customs of mere mortals.”

“It still would behoove you to observe some sort of propriety.” The Exarch's ruby eyes glitter, and his tone is unyielding. “Especially _in my city_.”

“Hmph,” Emet-Selch crosses his arms. “Only if I can expect the same courtesy when you are in _my_ city, dearest enemy.”

“What _city?_ ” The words pop out of your mouth.

Both men look over at you. Emet-Selch looks annoyed, as at a child who has spoken out of turn; the Exarch however looks surprised...as if perhaps he'd forgotten you were there.

You swallow hard and try to bluster rather than blush. “Why are you in my room, Ascian? I didn't invite you.”

He smirks. “ _You_ cannot prevent me. However,” he waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, “I am not here to ogle what meager charms you might boast, hero.”

A vile curse springs to your lips, but before you get more than a syllable out, the Exarch sets his hand on your shoulder.

“Speak if you are going to speak,” he says to Emet-Selch.

“You left me to come deal with this,” the Ascian's eyes flicker to you, then back to the Exarch, “ _situation._ ” His voice loads the single word with the venom of a dozen curses. His mouth twists as if he might vomit at the very sight of you.

You feel yourself go pale, then red, then pale again.

One elegant gloved hand extends towards the Exarch. “I've come to collect you. We had not, after all, finished our...discussion.”

“I'm afraid you have misunderstood me.” The Exarch's tone is polite, almost smiling, _steely_. “I do not wish to see you again this day. At all.”

Emet-Selch straightens from his lazy leaning against the partition that screens off your bed. You take a certain spiteful pleasure in the hurt that flashes across his face before it is replaced with the usual disdain. But you know what you saw. Emet-Selch had not expected to be told “no.”

He stares hard at the Exarch for a moment, then scoffs once more, and turns away. “ _Fine_ .”


	43. I Want It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch paced the roof of the Capitol building, hands tightly clenched behind his back, robes rustling with each turn. How dare the Exarch dismiss him – _him!_ Emet-Selch! The indignity of being shooed off like a mere lackey stung almost as much as the rejection he had seen in those ruby eyes.

_No, I won't stand for it! I cannot allow that little trollop to win him over. He is rightfully mine!_

For an instant he was inundated with something close to panic. He could not lose the Exarch. Not after so many centuries of searching. Not when he had been so very close to telling him...

It had to be the Exarch that he had been looking for. He'd never seen such density in a sundered soul. Granted, it was still a broken and mangled thing, hideous compared to his own unsullied splendor. That didn't matter. Not when Emet-Selch felt not only his body but his whole being consumed with thoughts of ruby eyes and soft, plush lips; of that so-elegant cock and the way that brilliant aether felt when it twined with his own.

He had thought himself accustomed to the loneliness. He had accepted that there could be no other state of being, not for him, not for any of the Unsundered. They could play with the mortals, but they could never truly connect with the ragged scraps of those pitiful souls.

Lahabrea had tried, once.

Well did Emet-Selch remember how the woman had been driven mad, how she had screamed and screamed and screamed until at last Elidibus had silenced her. It had been mercy, not murder. Her shattered mind could not encompass the things Lahabrea had awoken in her soul. And the saddest part: he truly had not meant her harm, he had come to care for that mortal; he had never really recovered.

Well. That was neither here nor there.

The Exarch had thus far shown him, over and over, that he was incredibly resilient, and his mind was scintillating with intelligence and knowledge both. He had lived a hundred years here on this shard, and look at him! Still as innocent in his way as some youngster, believing in the fundamental “goodness of man.” Believing even in that wanton Warrior of his, as if she were anything more than a consummate killer and an insatiable tramp.

He told himself sternly that there was no way such a light-skirted, materialistic, base-born bitch could attract him in any way. He had a use for her, and that use was going to destroy her. Of course he didn't _care_ about the little slut – except that she dared to steal from him the first lover he had truly –

Emet-Selch stopped his own train of thought, and examined his feelings.

When had he become so attached? From the first time he kissed the Exarch, perhaps. When was the last time he had felt like this? His brow furrowed. For that matter, when was the last time he had felt _anything_ so intensely? He had been protected from his own pain for so very long... He had not understood until very recently that all of his emotions were dulled, all of his physical responses muted – when he even had a body to respond with, of course. His mind remained as sharp as ever it had been, but his heart had slumbered. And now...it had awakened, and he did not want it to go back to sleep.

He _needed_ the Exarch. He was in love with the man. He had earned some small solace, had he not, for twelve millennia of steadfast service to Zodiark?

Of course he had! Therefore, his God must intend for him to feel these things. Zodiark _wanted_ him to take the Exarch for his own!

And so Emet-Selch would. He must do the thing carefully. It would not be wise to tip his hand too soon. Already the Exarch had come close, too close, to perceiving just what kind of monster Vauthry was. The man's principles alone would drive him further from Emet-Selch if he understood the fate the Ascian truly had in mind for the Warrior. And with the dratted woman panting after him so, the Exarch was unlikely to listen to any warnings Emet-Selch might try to give.

His lip curled. He ought to have simply obliterated her when she arrived. For that matter, why had Elidibus not extinguished her back on the Source? He had not had word from the Emissary for some time.

Well, no matter. His was yet the most brilliant mind among the Ascians, first among equals. He had crafted his plans and brought them to fruition, over and over for the past twelve thousand years. Capturing the Exarch's heart was his goal; he would therefore succeed.

He ceased pacing, and gazed out at his dark city. He smiled.

Soon, he would bring his beloved home.


	44. I Knew You Were Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

“I know you are lurking. She has left for Amh Araeng; you need not hide from her.”

“I am not _hiding_ ,” Emet-Selch growled as he materialized, “for I do not fear her.”

“Oh?” The Exarch's voice was smooth, his back turned. “Perhaps you should. Her Light is nearly enough to consume you and spit out the pieces, Ascian.”

“Even assuming you are correct,” Emet-Selch scoffed, “she is far too crude to ever wield the power in any effective way. Force is not everything.” His voice dropped as he brushed his gloved fingers against the back of the Exarch's neck. “You are so vehement about her,” he murmured. “Could it be that you have conflicting feelings about your _inspiration?_ ”

“There is no conflict.” The Exarch's knuckles were white on his staff. “Save the conflict which you appear to crave so very much, that you are willing to rub her nose in our association.”

“She deserves such treatment,” snapped Emet-Selch. “She uses you for her own purposes. She does not truly care for you.”

“And _you_ do not use me?” The Exarch turned. His ruby eyes glittered with anger. “You expect me to believe that you have _seduced_ me as you have, solely because you are attracted to me? Preposterous – I know exactly how much you want to unlock the secrets of my Tower.”

Emet-Selch set both hands on the Exarch's chest and shoved him against the wall. The golden staff clattered to the floor. The Ascian's hands trapped the Exarch's head as Emet-Selch leaned close. His breath ruffled the fur on the Exarch's ears, his lips nearly brushing the sensitive tips.

“Even if your suspicion is correct,” he whispered, “you also know exactly how interested I am in your...other Tower.”

“You are disgusting.”

Emet-Selch nuzzled the Exarch's neck. The Exarch turned his face away, but did not otherwise move.

Gloved hands plucked at silken robes, caressing with sinuous motions; the Ascian's knee eased forward, nudging up, fine velvet whispering against silk. Emet-Selch opened his mouth, and set his teeth delicately against the side of the Exarch's neck, dragging, then pausing to suck – not too hard, but enough to force the smaller man to react.

And react he did, hissing, rising up on his toes in a futile effort to avoid the teasing knee against his manhood.

Emet-Selch laughed, a low, soft laugh.

The Exarch turned his head to look at the Ascian, mouth opening to rebuke, and fell still.

Gold met ruby, and for an instant something passed between them; a word neither man would ever dare speak aloud.

G'raha Tia's bottom lip quivered. “Don't look at me like that. I can't stand it when you look at me that way.”

“Then,” Emet-Selch murmured, “close your eyes.”

Lips met lips, and with a shuddering sigh, G'raha let Emet-Selch bear him gently down, down, down, until he lay on his back on the figured floor.

Clothing seemed to turn to mist, so gently opened and drawn away that he almost couldn't feel it. Emet-Selch was bare from the waist up save for those damned gloves, and G'raha wasn't sure when he had disrobed, among all the pulling away of layers.

Gloved hands caressed crystalline skin, drawing forth resonances that should not answer the touch of a foe.

“Leave off,” he whimpered, even as his hips lifted off the floor, his aching cock cradled in a velvet grip. “I don't...want this.”

Emet-Selch licked a path up his belly, along the divide between stone and flesh; he paused at the mark the Warrior had left, and made a mark of his own, just beside it, angry and red. G'raha yelped, and shuddered.

“You know what to say,” Emet-Selch murmured. “Should you _truly_ wish for me to stop.”

“Gods damn you.”

“No, that's not it.” Emet-Selch laughed again, dark and promising. “I think this time I shall take my pleasure of you, and leave you wanting after all. To teach you a lesson.”

The man beneath him quivered, and clenched his jaw.

Emet-Selch teased him with tongue and hand and aether, until G'raha writhed under him, tail lashing, reduced almost to tears. The smaller man's cock twitched and throbbed as Emet-Selch abruptly grabbed G'raha by the hips and rolled him over onto his knees.

“Now,” Emet-Selch growled, and G'raha whimpered involuntarily as he felt the Ascian's hot cock press against him.

A single white glove hit the floor, where G'raha could see it; he knew what was coming next.

Bare fingers, well coated with saliva, working against him with harsh, hurried strokes – and once again G'raha found himself arching back, pressing into it, even as he cursed himself. Why did he want this so much? How had it come to this?

He did not want to admit, but could not deny, how much that dark, sweet aether called to him. How much he needed the pleasure Emet-Selch could give him. He wanted to growl at the man behind him, wanted to tell him that he was finished with him, to leave and never come back.

Instead, he dropped his shoulders and canted his hips, shameless as any beast in heat.

The Ascian whispered in Allagan, as he had become fond of doing. “So very lovely is my beloved.” The fingers already within him trembled.

Dark aether imprisoned him, stabilized him, against the slow but unrelenting pressure – the heat – the hardness – and yet again the Exarch wondered if he might die on the Ascian's massive phallus.

He howled as Emet-Selch hilted in him, a howl that ended on a gasping sob when gloved fingers stroked his hair.

Emet-Selch rocked his hips, slowly, and G'raha panted, transfixed on the enormous cock inside of him, too overwhelmed even to curse. The room faded from his sight, everything faded, there was only the guilt and the building glory –

“Do you hate me, now, oh mighty Exarch?”

Beneath him, G'raha Tia groaned. “Fuck you.”

“Is that all you can summon up? Such a mild vulgarity?”

And then, Emet-Selch stopped moving, his cock buried inside of his lover.

G'raha gasped, and tried to wriggle. “No – damn you, you bastard – don't do this to me...!”

“Hmm, I don't know,” the Ascian's voice lilted as he ran one gloved finger down G'raha's spine. “You rather hurt my feelings, throwing me out like that.” He shifted, as if to pull out.

“No, don't – don't – aaah, I beg of you – !”

“Oh?” The single word hangs in the air.

“Gods damn your soul,” G'raha panted. “I beg of you, Emet-Selch, fuck me. Please.”

“Where is my apology?”

“You had no business being in her room...”

“Ah-ah, wrong answer.”

“No!” G'raha sobbed. “All right, _all right!_ I am sorry I was rude in sending you away – please don't go – don't leave me _unfinished_ like this!”

Emet-Selch did not pull further out; he did not move at all. Waiting.

“Please...” The smaller man's voice was hoarse. “I need you.”

A soft groan from the Ascian and then –

“ _ **AH!**_ ”

G'raha's head came up as gloved fingers knotted in his hair and yanked. He cried out, conquered anew, and cried out again as he felt that massive member begin to convulse inside of him. His own pleasure dangled just out of reach and he sobbed with need.

Emet-Selch groaned. His bare hand skimmed across the pale skin, then underneath G'raha's belly, and he took his lover's cock in his hand.

The rosy blush of passion burst across that pale skin, and even the crystalline parts of him seemed to react, sparkles of light flashing from within. G'raha Tia came, messily, face red, tears on his cheeks as he bucked and spurted all over the floor of the Ocular. Above him, Emet-Selch closed his eyes and slammed his cock home one last time, giving in to his own orgasm.

They stayed still for a few minutes, both of them breathing hard.

Emet-Selch stirred, and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his lover's neck. He murmured something in a chiming tongue that G'raha did not know, and then eased back, his cock leaving its confinement with a lewd and sloppy noise.

A snap of fingers, and then a warm, damp cloth pressed against flesh and crystal both, cleaning gently, soothing the quivering muscles beneath the skin that still jumped from over-stimulation.

Another snap, and all their clothes were in their proper places; the floor was pristine. As if Emet-Selch had never been there.

A whisper of power, a hint of darkness, and the Ascian was gone.

The Exarch knelt in the middle of his Ocular, and wished he could weep.


	45. Come Little Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You aren't quite sure anymore just what to expect from the sin eaters, or the Wardens. Their forms have varied so wildly – the only common thread, really, is their coloration and their determination to destroy you.

This Warden is by far the _weirdest_.

A golden coin, embossed with a face – a coin wider across than you are tall – with twelve – no, fourteen – dammit, _too many wings_ flapping incessantly all around it.

Had someone tried to describe it to you, you might have laughed at them. On the surface it should have been ridiculous – a hen house gone mad, a flurry of pointless pinions around a meaningless mintage.

But with it before you, with its aura pressing on your mind and its spells threatening your life – it is definitely not funny.

The other Wardens had had their own auras of course. The abomination that had razed Holminster village had been pure hunger; the tainted Fae King had oozed boredom, even without adding in their ceaseless demands to “play.” The Warden in the forest had borne all the frustrated ferocity of any guardian whose treasure has been stolen.

But this one sings a wordless song, as if all it wants is to soothe you into slumber.

 _Let me take care of you_ , the song seems to whisper, _let me shelter you. I can make all your pain disappear, all your worries vanish. Let me make you comfortable, let me make the world go away_. It is a sweet and twisted lullaby. _Give in to me, child, and_ _ **nothing will ever happen to you again**_.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from succumbing to that soporific sound.

When at long last you strike the killing blow, you fall to one knee, exhaustion weighing down your limbs. Before any of the others can react, the Light-warden begins to sparkle and dissipate, and you stare into that glow, bracing yourself for what you know is coming.


	46. Hungry Like the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

“Well done. Another Warden destroyed.”

Emet-Selch kept his tone light, almost amused, as if he couldn't care less that the wretched Warrior had undone yet another of his creatures. Wardens were rather difficult to replace, after all. However... _If_ Hydaelyn's servant could truly withstand what was coming next, he might not have to worry about it.

The Exarch turned away from his scrying mirror, eyebrows raised. “I confess I am astonished that you are so calm about this all. She thwarts your plans with each such victory. Other Ascians would be enraged.”

“I am Emet-Selch,” the Ascian answered with a smirk, “and even among my kind I am exceptional. I did not lie, dear heart, when I said that I had hopes for this potential solution.”

“Had,” the Exarch echoed, ears twitching. Emet-Selch smiled. His beloved was clever to catch that subtle alteration.

“Well,” and now Emet-Selch made a moue, “I admit that I have concerns at the moment. Did you notice, dear Exarch, how she struggled, this time? It almost looked like she might turn.”

The Exarch frowned. “She was much more depleted by the battles she faced before reaching this Warden. Still...” he glanced at the mirror once more. “She appears to be fine.”

“For now.” Emet-Selch shook his head. “I fear she may be too fragile after all to handle such dangerous energies.”

“Do not tell me you are worried for her,” the Exarch scoffed.

“Oh, I am a _touch_ solicitous of her well being,” Emet-Selch shrugged. “If nothing else, because you care for her, and I would not see you distressed.” He leaned close, and raised one gloved hand to stroke the Exarch's chin.

The smaller man shivered delicately. Ruby eyes glimmered in the shifting light of the mirror. “If you truly did not wish to see me distressed, you would aid her.”

“Oh, but I cannot do _that_ ,” Emet-Selch answered. “As you well know.” He pressed his lips to the Exarch's in a light, teasing kiss.

“You are so damn distracting.”

“Am I?” Emet-Selch smirked. “Should I go, dear Exarch?” But he held his arms open, inviting – _beckoning_.

The Exarch waved his hand, and the mirror went blank. Then he set aside his staff of office, and stepped into the Ascian's embrace. With a shimmer of aether, he transported them to their trysting place.

The Exarch's mouth was on Emet-Selch's throat immediately. Even as he licked and nibbled, the scarlet-haired mage was all but clawing his robes off of himself. “I have been thinking too much about you again,” he muttered against the Ascian's skin. “It is _most_ upsetting.”

“Shall I soothe you, love?”

“I don't wish to be _soothed_.” The Exarch dragged Emet-Selch down onto the mattress. “I have let you do all the taking, far too often. This time...”

“Ah,” Emet-Selch sighed, a pleased sound. He snapped his fingers and banished all his own clothing. “You wish to be _satisfied_.”

The Exarch fell upon him as a wolf falls upon its prey. Hands and lips and tongue explored firm flesh, and Emet-Selch let his hands card through that sumptuous scarlet hair as he whispered to his beloved.

“Such an ardent lover you've become, dearest,” he murmured. “How very sweet your mouth is on my cock.”

The scarlet tail lashed, the man's mouth filled with the head of Emet-Selch's cock. Aether curled around the Ascian, brilliant and seeking, a little clumsy in its movements. With a smile, Emet-Selch guided the Exarch's efforts with his own dark aether, and in mere moments he was tensing beneath the smaller man, hips stuttering as he panted harshly.

“Would you like me to pleasure you with my mouth, dear Exarch?” he managed.

The Exarch did not answer in words.

Emet-Selch let out a long moan of wanting as the Exarch's aether slipped inside of him. The exact same trick he had used, in their first encounter. The intimate touch carried a sting along with the pleasurable pressure – Light and Dark did not play together well, after all. But the ache was far outweighed by the delight. He entangled his aether with that bright energy, just a bit more, sharing sensations across their link. He smiled when the Exarch moaned in response.

It occurred to him that he had yet to experience the Exarch's cock in the way he had first fantasized about. Emet-Selch's mouth curved further. _No time like the present, then_.

He tugged on that scarlet hair, and when the Exarch looked up at him, Emet-Selch muttered, “I want to feel more.” He stroked the sweep of crystal along the Exarch's cheek. “ _Fuck_ me, dearest enemy.”

Ruby eyes widened, pupils dilating, and then the Exarch rose up onto his knees.


	47. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

The Exarch looked down at his adversary – his lover – his guilty indulgence – and could not but admire the massive cock, gleaming with saliva, twitching with need; could not help meeting that golden gaze. Could not deny the emotions he saw there, that threatened to undo him.

G'raha Tia shuddered with lust and unspoken feelings he would not – _could not_ – acknowledge.

Emet-Selch reached without looking and deftly plucked the bottle of lubricant off the dresser.

G'raha pushed the muscular thighs apart, hands shaking violently, and took the bottle from the Ascian. No more than a moment is required, to apply the lubrication generously to both of them. G'raha did not bother to hand the bottle back, only capped it tightly and set it aside among the tangled sheets.

His aether remained entwined with that dark essence that he hungered for – that he hated himself for desiring. As he slipped his fingers inside of Emet-Selch, he could feel the clenching heat around his fingers, even as his own body tensed as if _he_ were the one being penetrated.

He removed his fingers, unable to draw out the foreplay, and settled the head of his cock against the feverishly hot ring of flesh. Emet-Selch closed his eyes, a small soft smile curving his lips in a way that G'raha had never seen before.

He bit back a whimper as he slid his cock inside of the Ascian. He was already much too close, the pleasure spiraling beyond all expectation. _A feedback loop_ , he thought dizzily. _One body's pleasure feeding into the other, and receiving it back amplified, again and again and...oh Twelve, I'm not going to last long like this._

He leaned his palms on Emet-Selch's chest, panting, and rocked his hips, a single slow thrust. His voice broke as he groaned. “Too good...”

Emet-Selch opened his eyes and held G'raha's gaze with his own. The smaller man hissed in surprise and then groaned once more as he felt the strangest pressure on his cock. “Do not worry, my dear,” the Ascian murmured. “I shall ensure that you stay the course.” His voice strengthened then, demanding, almost petulant. “Now fuck me with that beautiful cock of yours.”

G'raha's breath left him in a whoosh, and he began to slide in and out of the Ascian's tight heat. His eyes never left Emet-Selch's face, watching the other man's reactions, reveling in the lush sounds of pleasure he made. That mouth – so often smirking and smug – now took on the curves of helpless passion. The Ascian's face and chest reddened as he tossed his head.

“Harder – _harder!_ ”

G'raha whined softly as he obeyed, his heart racing even as his hips pounded into the other man. His tail lashed back and forth and his ears were pinned flat to his head. His hands, splayed on the Ascian's chest, tensed into claws, and his nails marked the fine skin.

He should never have let Emet-Selch touch him. He should not want this so much. Why was he still giving in? His Warrior loved him, and _this_ was how he repaid her?

But he could not deny the pleasure that stormed through his body, so utterly unlike the way he felt when he was with her.

Even at their most violent, she made him feel safe – precious – wonderful.

Being with Emet-Selch held the thrill of danger, but more than that, the way the Ascian manipulated aether elevated sex to another plane – literally. Up until now, he had to admit that he had not understood quite what Emet-Selch was even doing.

Now, _now_ he knew – and he was an active participant. Through the haze of ecstasy he wondered if he could persuade his Warrior to allow him to –

Emet-Selch threw his head back, the muscles in his neck tensing. A surge of desperate need washed over them both.

G'raha wrapped his aether around the massive, straining cock that bounced with his every thrust. The pressure against his own cock vanished as the Ascian quaked in the grip of orgasm. His body clenched around G'raha's cock, making him cry out. He slammed himself home one last time and came, as Emet-Selch let out a shout of his own. Hot seed splattered across the bed.

G'raha collapsed atop his lover, pulling out with a weary twist of his hips, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. His aether trembled, his body seemed to vibrate like a plucked string.

For one dazed instant he wished the Warrior were here in the bed with them. A wistful, impossible desire; he knew that full well. The Ascian was bent on destroying her, and she was no less antagonistic to Emet-Selch.

Deep within him, his spirit quailed at the thought of allowing his beloved Warrior to come to harm. That shiver of apprehension crystallized into a single thought of perfect clarity. He did not want to protect Emet-Selch; he wanted to protect the Warrior.

 _There is no conflict_ , he had told Emet-Selch. But there had been: a conflict within himself, dithering between infatuation and devotion, so starved for affection that he had allowed the line between lust and love to blur far too much.

And now at last, that internal debate was over.

 _No more_ , he told himself. _I will indulge this sick addiction no longer. I will instruct the Tower to lock the Ascian out, I will tell Emet-Selch it is over between us... In the morning_.


	48. Gethsemane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You return from Amh Araeng. You have felled its Light-warden, but you are not in a celebratory mood.

You ache, as you have ached since the end of that last battle, and you cannot understand why. Ryne looks at you with concern, but will not speak. Alphinaud, too, regards you with quiet worry in his eyes. Y'shtola has all but commanded you to take to your bed.

You are not tired.

You wander about aimlessly in your room, telling yourself over and over that you are not afraid.

Telling yourself that you are not alone.

Abruptly, you tense: you truly are not alone. You can smell the shadows on him before you turn around.

The Ascian looks at you, meeting your gaze. Emet-Selch does not smile.

“I will make myself plain, pedestrian though it be. I dislike sharing my dear Exarch's attentions, hero.” The word is a curse. “It is only for his sake that I have tolerated you. Make no mistake, woman. The Exarch is _mine_.”

“He is his own person, Ascian. You do not own him, nor do you have any rights to his heart.”

“You believe he loves you, and perhaps he does...” Emet-Selch's smile is deeply unsettling. “But will he love the monster you are becoming?” Those golden eyes bore into yours. “Will he still love you, when you kill him and drain his aether to appease your hunger... _sin eater?_ ”

You fling yourself at the Ascian, a cry of rage on your lips, but he is gone.

Fetching up against your window, you lean, gasping against the burning ache in your chest, fighting back tears. You _were not_ turning, you _would not_ turn, you couldn't let that happen. The other Scions would find a way, surely.

Twelve, let them find a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (refers to the song from Jesus Christ Superstar just to clarify that)


	49. I Can't Be Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

_She is cracking under the pressure_.

Emet-Selch was faintly surprised to realize that the Warrior's imminent demise did not fill him with satisfaction. _Why do I feel so uneasy? What is this nebulous regret that pinches at my mind when I try to sleep? I am a loyal servant to Lord Zodiark. I cannot, I_ _ **do not**_ _entertain doubts like these_.

He told himself firmly that he was imagining the signs on her, the marks of a soul seven times rejoined. She could not be the one he had searched for – he had already _found_ his lost love, was already laying plans to welcome his beloved home. His was the most brilliant mind among his brethren, his skill with magics of all sorts unequaled. He could not possibly have been mistaken.

He shoved the ache in his heart away, and returned to Eulmore, to prepare his beast for the final confrontation.


	50. and burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You start as someone taps on your door.

When you open it, the Exarch stands before you, every line of him speaking of his eagerness.

You let him in, and lock your door.

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. Which you should know, if the others reported to you.”

“They did. But I...needed to see you with my own eyes.”

“I'm not turning.”

“No, you are not.”

You gaze into his eyes, red as rubies, mysterious in their way as the Tower itself. You never were able to read his expressions or figure out what he was thinking, when you knew him before. Has he been with Emet-Selch while you've been gone? Do you really want to ask? Would you believe him, no matter what his answer?

“I'm thinking too damn much.” You wind your arms around his neck. “Care to give me a hand with that?”

He smiles.

He is gentle with you, this time, slow, even as he removes his sash and wraps your wrists. You allow it, already breathing quickly. You cannot take your eyes off of him, off his hands as he strokes you. His face is introspective, as if by studying every inch of your body, he will unlock some mystery of mysteries. Every kiss he lays upon you is reverent.

He lavishes kisses on your breasts, and murmurs your name as you arch for him. He trails his fingers, and then his tongue, down the line of your belly, making the muscles jump, making you twist to get away as he tickles you with his breath. Then when he tenderly bites and suckles, you stop twisting, and moan instead. You want to touch him, but he has bound you securely enough that you would have to expend some little effort to break free.

Lower, and lower, and lower still his hands drift, and then you feel the touch of crystalline fingers against your core and you cry out, body pleading for more.

When he slips those fingers inside you, your head falls back and you come almost instantly, hips grinding against stony digits that are yet flesh-warm.

He does not give you time to recover.

He is kneeling now, one hand pressing against your knee as his crystalline hand continues to pump in and out of you – fierce and glorious in equal measure. But when his tongue laps at your clit, everything goes dark for an instant. Your hips stutter as your heels dig into his shoulders. He does not let up, fluttering his tongue against that pearl until you come again, and _again_ , and _**again**_ –

“Please!” You cannot scream, only pant and weakly cry out, pleasure flooding you, breaking you into a million pieces. “Please, I can't – I can't – _**I can't**_ – !”

He latches onto you and you can feel him rumbling, growling, and then he _sucks_ against your flesh and you lose all control. Your legs kick hard against him, shoving him away a few inches, and your back arches to the point that your forehead is pressing against the headboard of your bed for an instant. He releases you, and the loss of his fingers is a shock sufficient to make you sob aloud.

He is over you now, pinning you, his robes sliding across skin that is already oversensitive, making you whimper. You are helpless to resist, incapable of moving away or even protesting. His knee pushes your legs apart, then his hands grasp your calves and guide them up, higher and yet higher, until you are balanced on your shoulders, your rear end off the bed entirely, your knees hooked over his shoulders. Your belly is compressed like this and you are reduced to panting harshly for air.

There is no more gentleness in him. He enters you the way a battering ram enters a citadel, but unlike the citadel you rejoice at the hands of your conqueror. His cock is harder than you have ever felt it, his eyes a clearer ruby than ever before, everything about this is more intense than any other encounter you've experienced. His teeth are bared as he fucks you without mercy, and he turns his head just enough to set his teeth against your skin, just above your knee, and bites.

The pain is as nothing, but you yelp in surprise nonetheless.

“Do it again.” Your voice trembles as you plead with him.

He bites you three more times, before at last you feel the change in his pace, in his breathing, that heralds his climax.

Your eyes widen as you feel the Light inside your body coiling like a snake.

His eyes close as he cries out in ecstasy.

 _The Light strikes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "and burn" by Billie Eilish is the song referred to here


	51. Not While I'm Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

Everywhere their bodies touched, Light exploded outward from the Warrior's skin, flames of purest gold. Locked in orgasm, the Exarch felt his skin scorching even as he spurted inside of her.

Pain and pleasure twisted together for an instant, and then the Exarch yelped and flung himself away. His robes were smoking, but he paid no attention.

For _his Warrior_ was on fire. Immolated in her own bed, writhing, the sash around her arms already consumed. The sheets were catching fire, and he could smell scorched hair. Her eyes and mouth were tightly shut and her body arched as if in the grip of a seizure.

Moving swiftly he rolled off of the bed and summoned up his magic. He created a blanket of aether, smothering the air around her, dampening and then killing the flames. With a yank he pulled her out of the bed and onto the tiled floor.

She lay there, naked and weeping, scorched and soot covered. Her bed still smoldered, as did his robes. With an almost absent gesture he further extinguished those remaining embers and knelt beside his beloved.

“What is _happening_ to me?” she sobbed.

The Exarch, face pale and terrified, could not answer.

He helped her get cleaned up, helped her change the sheets. He healed her burns, minor though they were, and tried to soothe her with his aether.

She kept glancing at her hands, as if she might burst into flame again at any moment.

“I am sorry,” he said at last, as he tried to settle her in bed once more.

“It's not your fault...”

“It may be, actually.” His ears flattened as he blushed. “It may be that I...ah...overstimulated you. A little.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then her eyes shut and her shoulders began to shake. He pressed her shoulders, concerned for her.

Then abruptly she was racked by helpless, rather hysterical giggles. He almost laughed, himself; her laughter had always been infectious to him.

“What a fucking joke,” she managed at last. “Gods. Does this mean that any – ” she snorted, repressing another giggle, “ – any _exertion_ will trigger that, that explosion?” The giggle escaped her anyway. “Could be useful, making myself into a bomb.”

“That is not useful,” he chided. He stroked her arms. “I do not know for certain, mind you...but I do not think that simple combat should present any issue for you.” His mouth quirked, a hint of humor in his voice. “You are, after all, quite versed in combat, and its demands.”

“And not with getting off?”

His ruby eyes twinkled. “Would you rather I said that you were unfamiliar with my demands?”

He saw her think about it, and then she laughed once more – a laugh cut off by a sudden enormous yawn.

“Oh! Sorry. I guess I'm tired, now.”

“Yes. You should rest.”

He started to get up, and she put her hand over his. He looked down at her, his fingers curling around hers.

“Please don't go,” she whispered. “Just...just sit with me a while. Please?”

He lifted her hand, and kissed each of her knuckles in turn. “Of course, my love.”

When she slept, the Exarch paced her room.

It was not nervous pacing: each step was accompanied by a murmured word and a small gesture, and a wisp of aether fluttered out, seeming to vanish into the floor, the ceiling, the walls – even the shutters and the glass of the windows.

He built the wards with great care, layering protection upon protection, a shell of power. It would not equal the protection of being within the Tower proper, but he could hardly lock her in his bedchamber.

Attractive as that was beginning to sound, she'd likely kill him.

He finished weaving the wards, and then stood beside her bed, just watching her sleep. He wanted to touch her, but he knew it would only wake her – the last thing she really needed right now.

He turned away before temptation got the better of him, and took a seat at her table. He could still see her from here; if she needed him, he would be at her side in a heartbeat.

He wished he dared beg her forgiveness. He had wronged her so, so badly – over and over – and here he was, about to hurt her yet again. How could he ever explain what had driven him to make the decisions he had made, to take the actions he had taken?

He drifted into a weary, worried half-sleep.

The best he could hope for now, was to make the ending swift and clean.


	52. To Make You Feel My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

_Eulmore is not a place I am pleased to visit._

He could not travel far from the Tower, not for long; part of the price extracted from him. For all the powers he could wield, for all the immense energy that the Tower could contain, it required him to remain in proximity to it in order to continue to sustain him.

Being in Kholusia was just about at the limit of his capabilities. He would be weaker here than anywhere else, and the longer he stayed away from the Tower, the more he would suffer.

He eyed the marble floors and columns of the room where he stood. It had likely belonged to one of the pampered citizens, but it was quite empty now, save for himself and one other. He gave the rich hangings and overstuffed furniture a small sneer. The color scheme was horrendous – mauve and orange, a poorly thought out attempt at mimicking a sunset.

 _Bah, this whole place makes me_ _ill_.

The Scions, and his Warrior, were outside the main tower of the city, giving aid to all the people whose minds had been controlled by Lord Vauthry. Many of them were injured, though the Scions had done the least damage they could – striking to immobilize, not to kill. They had already healed most of the soldiers, and purple uniforms were now fanning out, gathering in more and more weary, wounded, frightened folk.

No one knew, yet, that he had teleported to the city.

No one except Emet-Selch.

“Why on earth did you insist that I come here?”

“I predict,” the Ascian drawled, “that your help will soon be needed.”

The Exarch leaned on his staff and made a hum of disbelief.

Emet-Selch laughed quietly. The Exarch could see dark wards on the doors. Privacy was assured, then.

Despite the garish color scheme and overly lavish materials, the room had something to recommend it: the view. Emet-Selch leaned against the balustrade of the elegantly curving balcony, and gazed out over the sluggish ocean and the static horizon.

Even with the smothering Light, the vista was striking. Once, before the Flood, the waves must have made a merry dance against sky and stone...

“Your Warrior,” Emet-Selch murmured. “She should have felled Vauthry here. Now he has fled – and I confess, I do not think much of her chances if she dares to climb Mount Gulg.”

“Why?” The Exarch tilted his head. “She has recovered from her...difficulties following her fight at Malikah's Well. She is stronger now than ever.”

“She is not strong enough, I fear, for what is coming.”

“I believe we have had this conversation once already.” The Exarch frowned. “You do not care for her; well I know that by rights, you should be actively attempting to murder her. Yet you have not, and you continue to leave her be: neither aiding nor hindering her actions, even now.”

He came to stand beside Emet-Selch, looking out over the water. “I confess, your logic quite escapes me.”

“My logic is merely that no mortal ought to be able to hold the Light as she does,” Emet-Selch answered, his eyes drifting down. “Every tower has its weak point; everything breaks under enough pressure. And look at her.”

One gloved hand gestured, and the Exarch saw the Warrior, far below them, wrapping strips of material around an old woman's arm. Even from here, he could see the gentleness in her body-language, could see how she drew in everyone around her. These folk had just seen her tear through their fellows, their neighbors, their kin: and yet already, without a word, she regained their trust.

“She spends herself too freely,” the Ascian muttered. “She is enervated.”

The Exarch blinked, and realized that Emet-Selch was right. She was using her personal aether – not in any specific spell, but simply to augment her aura, to help calm everyone around her.

“She should be resting,” he sighed. “But she will not do so.”

“You must persuade her to leave Vauthry alone.”

“Pardon?” The Exarch turned to stare up at Emet-Selch. “Why would she do such a daft thing? Leaving Vauthry to his own devices will only result in his reappearance, likely with an overwhelming force of sin eaters at his back!”

“Not necessarily. He is frightened. He fled, like a small child, rather than stay and face the Warrior in battle. Perhaps he will be content to remain,” Emet-Selch gestured vaguely in the direction of the flying mountain, “up there.”

“You do not believe any such thing,” the Exarch answered flatly. “You are not an idiot, and you have not gone insane, and nothing less would allow anyone to think that Vauthry will not hurl his might against us, and soon.”

“What if I told you that Vauthry is living on borrowed time?” Emet-Selch asked. “What if he were, in fact, nearly at death's door even as we speak?”

“Preposterous. Vauthry is a grasping, prideful man, who has been badly thwarted in his aims. And he is the creation of an Ascian – I am certain that someone, if not you yourself, had much to do with his upbringing, with the attitudes he displays.”

Emet-Selch smiled. “An astute observation.”

“Then, having spent resources and time on him, why would you allow Vauthry to die?”

The Ascian smirked. “Why, indeed. Though perhaps you overestimate how much we Ascians value time. After all,” he made a dramatic gesture towards his heart, “it is all we have.”

The Exarch snorted, then leaned on his staff once more. “You could have spoken to me of all this, back at my Tower,” he said. “I am not needed here for some time...”

“In truth, no, you are not needed...not by the Scions or the people of Eulmore.” Emet-Selch stretched, and then reached out to the Exarch, stroking his cheek. “But I needs must remain nearby, and I am the one who needs you, dearest Exarch.”

“You can travel far more readily than most anyone else on this star,” the Exarch began, but then Emet-Selch was sweeping him into his arms, shoving his hood back and burying the fingers of one hand in his scarlet hair.

“Except that you locked me out of your Tower again,” he whispered against the Exarch's ear. “You made yourself quite clear that I was no longer welcome in your city.”

The Exarch pushed at the Ascian, to little effect. “As I told you, our association is at an end. Unless you are going to actively help us...”

His words were cut off as Emet-Selch kissed him, a short hard kiss. “Listen to me,” he said against the Exarch's lips. “I need you. What exists between us has nothing to do with sin eaters and Rejoinings, not anymore.”

“Nothing,” the Exarch's voice trembled, “exists between us.”

“How you wound me,” Emet-Selch whispered, and kissed him again. “How cold you have become.” He laughed, a low and wicked sound, as his aether enveloped the smaller man. “But I know the truth, beloved. I know you yet crave what I can give you.”

The Exarch's teeth clenched as he clung to his self control. The Ascian's aether caressed his nerves, sank into his crystal, plucked at his very soul; he shuddered with sudden pleasure as Emet-Selch deftly stroked the base of his tail with fingers of pure aether. His cock was aching already, and if the Ascian continued what he was doing he might...

“Stop.”

“I was alone before I met you,” Emet-Selch whispered, “and I will be alone again eventually. Would you truly deny me this solace, dearest enemy? Can you not spare even some few hours to ease my suffering?”

Hands of aether, mouths of aether, cavorted all across the Exarch's flesh. His crystal hummed with energy, giving off little pings now and then as Emet-Selch fed aether into the matrices, supplementing what was already there. The sensations were electric, overwhelming.

“If you wish me to beg, I will beg,” the Ascian purred. “I will plead with you, dearest, I will weep for you if only you will grant me this boon. One more time...”

“One more...” The Exarch shivered, his head swimming, disoriented now, almost fainting from what Emet-Selch was doing to him.

“ _Please_.” The single word was accompanied by a surge of aether that made the Exarch stiffen and cry out. Emet-Selch held him up, effortlessly, as the smaller man orgasmed in his arms.

As the pleasure ebbed, the Exarch found himself wrapping his arms around Emet-Selch's neck. He felt utterly boneless as the Ascian carried him inside and lay him on the wide velvet couch.

“Give me one more opportunity to persuade you,” Emet-Selch murmured, stretching out beside the smaller man. “Let me prove to you how I feel.”

Resistance melted in the heat of that golden gaze, and the Exarch nodded.


	53. Say My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet Selch

Emet-Selch looked upon his beloved and smiled. Sleeping now, exhausted from love-making, the red-haired mage was curled in on himself, his cheek pillowed on his tail. _So utterly adorable, he is. It is quite unfair for any one being to be so endearing._

He stroked his fingers through that plush scarlet hair, richer and more sensuous than the velvet of the couch they lay on. Even as he stroked the Exarch's hair, he read the smaller man's aether, sinking his awareness into blood and bone and Allagan crystal.

Ah. Severely weakened, yes, uncomfortable certainly... Then he frowned. _No, no, that won't do at all_. He fed energy once more into the crystalline matrices, and observed the ripples that resulted from his action. Normally, injecting more energy into what had likely been designed as a closed loop was foolhardy at best, and dangerous at worst. But he was Emet-Selch, he was The Architect of Amaurot, and he knew a thing or two about design flaws and exploitation...

And Allagan crystal, peculiar material that it was, had a unique flexibility in the hands of one who had the necessary power...and sufficient control.

His brows creased as he worked, slowly, so as not to waken his sleeping lover. He focused his intent to a fine point, and followed the delicate, elaborate pathways – so elegant, mimicking the flows of living flesh, of mortal aether, to such an extent that what seemed to be stone could mostly function as if it were skin and muscle and bone.

He had asked the Exarch, months ago, if his heart was crystalline. The answer then had been “no.” But now...

No, the heart itself remained normal. The blood flowed as blood must; the vital organs – lungs, liver, brain – continued their function without visible strain. He could not go deep enough to read the gossamer net of nerve endings – not here, at any rate, not now. But he already knew that sensations were dulled in those areas that had become crystalline. No, most of what was inside the Exarch was what he had expected to see.

He had not expected to find that almost every bone in the man's body was now crystalline, however. Even the spine was beginning to show signs of impending crystallization.

Worse, he could see that the process was accelerating. Distance from the Tower was going to slowly petrify the Exarch.

Unless...

 _I need to go deeper_.

He loosed his hold on his physical form. To an observer, it would seem as if the man lying beside the Exarch simply vanished. To aether sight, Emet-Selch would have abruptly expanded, becoming ten times the size he seemed to be normally, his dark essence completely enveloping his lover, an embrace to make the bravest heart quail.

To the Ascian, it was like letting out a breath after being confined in too-tight armor.

Emet-Selch searched for the connection that bound the Exarch to his Tower. On finding it, he let out a sigh of vexation.

He could not sever it. Or rather, he could – but it was like to kill the Exarch on the spot.

Unacceptable.

He examined it again – to his senses, it was a cord, not unlike that silver thread that bound soul to body. The Allagans had been working on perfecting the magics that could manipulate the soul itself...too bad that fool of an Emperor had ruined everything before they could finish. He brushed aside his musing. He could not sever the connection...but perhaps...

Gently, he applied pressure, watching sharply for any change in the Exarch's vital signs.

A flutter – a flicker – the scarlet-haired mage's heart skipped a beat.

But Emet-Selch was not merely suppressing the Tower's energy conduit. He was replacing the energy, drop for drop. A tiring and difficult process, and not something he could do on the fly, but...the result was promising thus far.

Further attenuation of the connection would make it simpler to block the Tower off from its master. Once blocked – then, the Exarch would be under only Emet-Selch's protection.

The Ascian smiled once more, relinquishing his hold on the conduit. He pressed shadowy lips to scarlet hair and murmured, in the tongue of the Ancients, “Not long, now, most beloved enemy. Not long now. Soon, I will bring you home.”

And now, with the Exarch's defenses suitably weakened, he insinuated a sliver of his power deep inside his lover's mind, forging a new connection. Nothing inimical, of course: a mere thread of power, carried on a name that he whispered into the darkness behind his beloved's eyes.

A thread that would wind its way tighter around his heart, a notion to enchant his mind, a seed that would take root in his soul.

Emet-Selch had lived for more than twelve thousand years. He knew how to ensure that his plans succeeded. He knew how to guide the vine in the way he wished it to grow.

His entanglements in place, he withdrew from the Exarch, returned to a merely physical form, a merely physical touch, a merely physical kiss.

Beneath him, the Exarch stirred, and opened his eyes.

Golden eyes met ruby.

“I love you,” Emet-Selch whispered. “ _Raha_.”

For an instant, a smile flickered across those plush and kissable lips. Then came the sleepy murmur the Ascian had hoped to hear.

“Love you too...Hades.”


	54. Good Vibrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch

“As much as I would prefer to keep you right here and dally the hours away,” Emet-Selch sighed, “I fear that scruffy adventurer of yours shall soon be looking for you.”

“She is not scruffy.” But the Exarch sighed. He knew he wouldn't change the Ascian's mind about his Warrior. Instead of continuing to quibble, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers through Emet-Selch's hair. “I will have to leave soon, yes.”

“I shall not be able to approach you again for a time.” Emet-Selch pouted, and then his eyes glittered. “However, I do have a thought.”

“The look on your face tells me it is a most inappropriate thought,” the Exarch chuckled.

“Only if someone divines what goes on beneath those robes of yours.”

“Well, now I'm _curious_.”

Fingers snapped, and the Exarch blinked.

In their trysting room back at the Tower, among the comforts and useful things like lubrication, there had also appeared several toys of a decidedly sexual nature. Emet-Selch had even asked about them once...and the Exarch had kept silent.

He had not answered, because he had not really _known_ quite where the toys had come from. To his embarrassment, the toy that Emet-Selch had summoned was among the ones that the Exarch had no experience with. He wasn't even sure what the little bullet shaped thing did, nor why it had a cord and straps and...

He felt his face burning, and saw Emet-Selch smile. It was a most wicked smile.

“Ah, how is it a man of your advanced age can yet be so innocent?” the Ascian murmured, and kissed his lover gently. “You never fail to charm me.”

“What are you planning, you terrible man?”

“I wish to ensure that I can...remain in touch.”

“W-w-what...”

But even as the Exarch stuttered, he was allowing Emet-Selch to lay him on his back, allowing him to guide his legs up and apart. He gazed down in quivering interest as the Ascian began to manipulate straps and cords with patient care.

“This, here,” a narrow belt that rested over the Exarch's hip bones once cinched up snug, “to hold things in place, and then this,” a strap around the top of his thigh, and a strange oblong object slotted into a slot there. A cord extended from the object, connecting it with...with...

“Oh gods,” the Exarch whispered.

Emet-Selch laughed, a soft and delighted chuckle, even as he deftly inserted the bullet shaped piece of the toy within the Exarch's body. Muscles rippled, and the Exarch's teeth clenched. His breath hissed between his teeth.

“It's cold,” he complained.

“Not for long, my love.”

“What do you – oh, oh, _oh!_ ”

The toy had begun to vibrate inside of him, and warmed to body temperature within moments. The Exarch panted, eyes wide, sweat springing out on his forehead.

Emet-Selch tenderly guided more cords up and over, hooking them to snaffles on that narrow belt, and the Exarch moaned as he realized that the arrangement ensured that no amount of wiggling or flexing was going to dislodge the delightful – _terrible_ – wicked – _wonderful_ toy.

Already his cock was rising, twitching from the stimulation.

“Ah, that shan't do at all,” Emet-Selch murmured, his grin widening. Another snap of his fingers, and a soft piece of leather appeared.

The Exarch watched, indignant but helpless, as his cock was gently wrapped in the leather, and carefully tied into a position that made it lie close to his thigh. No one would know how aroused the Exarch was...so long as they didn't look underneath his clothing.

And so long as he could keep from fainting.

“This is g-g-going to make things very...very...”

“Interesting,” Emet-Selch nodded. His smile was sharp and fierce.

Then he tapped the little oblong, and a set of tiny lights flashed. The toy ceased vibrating.

“Now then,” he said to the Exarch. “This particular unit is good across quite some distance.”

“Distance?” The Exarch blinked, and then his blush deepened until his skin was stinging. “You can't – you wouldn't really – Hades, don't leave me like this!”

Emet-Selch laughed, dark and low and evil. “Oh, don't worry, dearest enemy. This device is activated by aether. I'll know exactly how far to push you. I promise...” and now he leaned in, his body brushing against the Exarch's restrained sex, tormenting him, “I shan't be _too_ cruel.”

“No,” the Exarch begged. “Don't make me go about like this, Hades. I'll...I'll disgrace myself, you can't possibly be serious...”

“I am always serious. And I never lie, my love. You know that.”

“Oh gods, you're going to kill me.”

“Don't be so dramatic,” Emet-Selch scoffed. Then he kissed the Exarch deeply. “It is not your talent. All you need to do is be your usual stoic self. And when this is done...I shall give you a suitable reward for playing along with my whims, hmm?”

The Exarch whined. “I am not at all certain I can...”

“I believe in you, love.” The Ascian's smile was pure mischief. “Now, get up and get dressed. I must make certain the fit is comfortable for you, and that nothing shows.”

Somehow, the Exarch managed to obey.

Twelve preserve him, he only hoped his Warrior would be far too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary.


	55. Something Like a Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You have grown used to the peculiarities of Kholusia. The air is so like the sea breezes of La Noscea – the tang of salt and the hush of waves lapping. But there is no breeze here, and the salt seems to cling to everything, a fine white dust that gets into your hair, your clothes, your food. The stench of half-rotten seaweed – a smell you had once associated only with certain beaches – clings as well, to the feathers of the birds, to the very rocks and trees. Where La Noscea was warm, Kholusia is cold; where one might have expected a riot of noise and color, there is only white stone. And monsters. Can't forget the monsters.

But monsters are the least of your concerns now. The floor beneath you shakes, vibrating strongly as the Ladder hauls the platform up, and up, and _up_...

You have been atop Sohm Al. You've ridden on the back of Midgardsormr, high above the Sea of Clouds. You've even climbed to the very top of a tower once, a goal that all your friends had thought impossible, and looked out over Kugane like some kind of conquering demigod.

For the first time in your life, you are just a little afraid of heights.

Or perhaps it is only the incessant shaking, and the rather alarming creaks and rattles and other assorted complaints that the old machinery gives as it lifts you, Alisaie, and Alphinaud higher and higher.

At last the journey ends, and with an almighty **_CLANG_ **the Ladder's platform halts.

The twins want to get a better look, and you follow them as they scurry up a few flights of metal stairs to reach a viewing platform above. Standing with them, you can admit, the view is incredible.

You let them along, and turn away from the ocean vista to the south, and you cannot help but settle your gaze on the mountaintop that has taken flight. It is surrounded by a halo of golden rays – they look to be made of literal gold, and float in the air with all the casual aplomb of any of the floating islands above Abalathia's Spine. An affront to nature, here on the First, but then again – so is Vauthry.

Everything here is different.

There is a breeze here, a strong and gusting wind that tosses a few tumbleweeds about. The land is drier here, more similar to Amh Araeng except for the coloration of the rocks and sand. The scent on the wind is strange – like old copper and fresh ashes.

When you first arrived here on the First, you might have taken an interest in those changes.

Now, you are weighed down, carrying a burden of Light that you cannot even understand anymore. You are wearied by it, and so you notice the smells, the colors, the edge of frost in the gust that blows your hair back from your face. But you do not care. You do not feel the itch to explore that once brought you so much enjoyment in your travels. There is no pinch of curiosity to make you wonder what is next, or to crave a name for the weird monster prowling just beyond the walls of this upper part of the Ladder.

You recall how Urianger explained that here on the First, the Light brought only stasis. You can feel the power within you, burning like a star, unwavering, trying to drag you down until you, too, are still and staid.

It takes all your will to turn back to the twins and speak.

“Let's get moving.”


	56. Turbo Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

The Ascian watched the Warrior through his trusty feathered spy, and frowned deeply.

He had not spent much time examining her closely. For the first time since her unwanted arrival, he wondered if perhaps such had been a mistake.

Twelve thousand years since his world had been shattered into pieces. And before that, he had lost the one he loved...

It had not been easy to come to the decision to summon Zodiark. But it had been even harder to watch his beloved to storm away from him, refusing to be a party to the summoning. They had vanished after that. He had known they were not dead, for a time; had hoped, with a dull kind of ache, that he might someday reconcile with them, when all had been done and their people – their world – saved and set to rights once more.

But then – Hydaelyn.

And after She had been summoned, everything had gone wrong.

His beloved – like everyone, everything else – had been Sundered, broken into fourteen separate shards, and scattered like chaff on the wind. Hydaelyn's attack had nearly destroyed Zodiark, and had nearly obliterated all those who had summoned Him into the bargain. Only three had escaped...

He had spent the intervening millennia working towards Rejoining the shards. Towards repairing the grave errors that had been made. But he had also kept a sharp watch on all the souls he encountered, hoping against hope to catch a flash of familiarity, a glimpse of that soul he had known and loved so very much.

Sometimes he had felt sure he'd found them: a gesture, the color of their eyes, a hint of that smile, the lilt in the voice, the stinging wit...so many mortals had caught his notice.

Only to watch them disappoint him, again and again and again. They never saw him, never saw Hades. Only a villain, a lord, a fellow mortal, worthy of no special respect or emotion. Even when he seduced them, they merely folded beneath his regard, gave in and became slavishly devoted, shedding the illusion of independence like a snake molting its skin.

Liars, the lot of them. Nothing left of his people in these ragged shreds. They dared to call themselves alive, but they were of no more value than the mildew growing in their reeking outhouses, not to him. What good were they? Even the Allagans had been a massive letdown.

Not like the Exarch. The man was so very naive, believing he could deceive an Ascian, but he had also withstood everything that Hades had tried on him so far: worlds away more than any other lover for...

He frowned again, seeing the Warrior gesture to her slender companions. He had seen that very gesture before. The gleam in her eyes as she made some sort of quiet joke – the young man beside her rolled his eyes in appreciation of the humor. He'd seen that gleam before, too.

No.

No, he could not be mistaken.

But he could not stop himself. His aether – his very soul – reached out towards hers.

She paused, mid-step, eyes widening.

“Are you well, my friend?” Alphinaud's voice was sharp with concern, his hand on her shoulder immediately; meanwhile the girl – Alisaie, that was the name – set her hand on her weapon and swept her gaze around sharply, instantly on guard.

Hades sucked in a breath as the soul inside the woman below him answered his.

There were no words, merely a sensation of shock – and then an outpouring of something he could not believe.

Joy.

He withdrew his aether, jerking loose of her, and teleported to his dark abode.

He told himself that some dust had gotten into his eyes, and cursed steadily at the Warrior as he washed his face. He had not fled. He was merely wearied of looking at the flea-bitten female.

It could not be true. It could not. He would not have it! He would not believe it.

He seized the little Allagan device from his pocket, tossing it on his bed. With vicious motions he shed his clothes and sprawled on the mattress.

Then he took up the controller and began to manipulate it, tuning its frequency, finding the Exarch and beginning the stimulation.

With a flick of a switch he activated the reciprocity function.

He closed his eyes and savored the echo of sensations. He could have gotten a much stronger jolt from being right beside his lover and doing this; the distance between them muted things somewhat. That was all right. He concentrated, his free hand cupping his balls and then sliding up to stroke his own cock.

He lost himself in the feelings – the ones he was causing in the Exarch, the ones he was causing in himself. The mindless chase for pleasure was far preferable to questions he could not answer and did not wish to face.

He could faintly “see” the Exarch in his mind – saw the man staggering away, seeking solitude, could feel his heart hammering, the sweat on his skin. He could almost hear the sweet groans rumbling in the scarlet-haired mage's chest as he found a secluded spot and collapsed to the ground, leaning against a boulder as if he were about to be sick.

His hips lifted from the mattress as he intensified the vibrations.

Faster and faster his hand pumped his cock. Soon he was groaning, just the same as the Exarch was doing.

He felt it when the Exarch finally broke, felt a ghost of cold against his own legs as the other man clawed his robes up, exposing himself to the sky. His lips stretched in a taut grin as he felt and saw the Exarch tugging the leather cuff off that so-elegant cock. The suede was damp with pre-come, and the entire shaft throbbed with desperate need.

The instant the Exarch set his hand to his own cock, Emet-Selch found his head pressing back into the mattress. His back arched, his hips lifted, his whole body making a bow shape as he nearly choked on the frantic groans clawing their way out of his throat.

Three strokes and the Exarch was coming, spattering the stone under the merciless Light; and on his soft bed in the dark, Hades' own cock spilled hot seed all over his fingers.

He fell back, gasping, and with the last of his energy, turned the device's stimulation to its lowest setting. Not off completely...but the low level pleasure would keep his beloved company for a little time.

Emet-Selch sank gratefully into the abyss of sleep.


	57. One Way or Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You break into a jog the moment you pass Amity's fences. Knowing which way the Exarch had gone is a help, but you cannot help but worry. He has had too many moments of strange silence, of apparent weakness. He has said over and over that he is an old man, and until now you did not believe him...

When you see just the glimpse of his sandal on the ground, your heart stops for an instant and you dash towards the boulder.

You careen around the rock and stagger to a halt, and then your breath leaves you in a breathless giggle.

 _Sleeping_.

Leaning against the rock, napping as if he had nothing else to do, no one to worry about him.

Maddening man.

You kneel, and shake his shoulder.

He starts awake, and then apologizes. But he does not get up.

You sit beside him, and let him ramble for a time. The things he says wash over you – not that you do not care what he says, but you are simply so very happy to be beside him again that the sweet words are more like icing on the cake.

Abruptly everything that is happening crashes over you, and you find yourself shivering.

“What is it?”

You shake your head, utterly inarticulate for a moment. The enormity of the attempt – of what has been done already, what is about to happen, all the things that have led up to this incredible endeavor...

“It is almost over,” the Exarch says, clearly trying to soothe you.

Those words strike you like blows to the gut.

You begin to weep.

“What – no, no, no,” and he is close, arms going around your shoulders, pressing you to him. “Sh, sh, don't cry. It's going to be all right.”

“Don't let go of me.”

He is silent for a breath, and then his arms tighten. “As you wish, my love.”

You cling to him, tears slowly fading as you finally manage to calm your sudden, inexplicable panic. You can hear his heart hammering in his chest. His hands shake as he strokes your back.

You pull back just enough to reach up and push his hood back, so that you can look into his face.

“I need to ask you something.”

“Anything,” he answers, ruby eyes warm on yours, his hands still soothing you.

“That damned Ascian says I'm going to turn. He says you won't love me if I do.” You swallow hard. “If I – if...”

“You are _not_ going to turn into a Light-warden,” the Exarch says, mouth tightening. “I won't allow it.”

“But if it happened...would you hate me?”

“No.” He kisses you, a gentle and sweet kiss that makes the tears spring up again.

“Would you kill me?”

His fingers dig into your shoulders. “Do not think such things. You are _not going to turn._ I will not need to do any such awful thing.”

“Raha.”

He stills.

“Promise me. Don't let me hurt the others. Don't let me live, if I do turn.”

“Gods. Must you be so...so pessimistic?”

“You know I've always been a realist.”

“This is a horrible promise to ask of anyone, much less of one who loves you.”

“If you love me, you'll promise.” You meet his eyes. “Call it a contingency plan.”

He snorts. “I do _not_ like your idea of contingency planning.”

“Promise me, Raha. Please.”

“Oh, very well. Only because I truly believe it shan't be necessary. I promise. I will protect the Scions with my very life, and should you become a danger to them, I will find a way to stop you from harming them.” He strokes your cheek. “Happy now?”

“No. But thank you.” You bury your face against his chest. “I'm afraid, Raha.”

His hands soothe your back once more. “I know. I know.”

The panic has faded, but the adrenaline still flows, and your hands begin to pluck at his robes.

Your fingers worm their way underneath the silk and find his flesh, and he makes a tiny moan, down in his chest.

“Dear heart, is this really the time for such... _ah_...such things...?”

“Yes.”

“And if someone comes looking for you? For us?”

“Then let 'em get an eyeful. Damn it, I need you. Right now, Raha.”

“Am I not a little too old to be doing this on the ground?”

“If _you're_ old, _I'm_ an Ascian,” you retort.

He laughs, and gives in, taking your mouth with his.

You both move quickly, hands fumbling, clothing coming off only the bare minimum necessary.

He shoves your tunic up and fastens his mouth over your nipple, and even as you gasp and press his head to you, your free hand is unfastening your pants and tugging them loose.

With a growl he yanks off part of his robe, and tosses it onto the ground.

“On your knees,” he demands, and you are all too eager to comply. You yank your pants down, and off of one leg, before scrambling into place. Your knees are cushioned by black silk, your palms are on the coarse dirt. You arch, offering yourself to him, and your grin is feral when you hear the way he groans in response.

His fingers dig into your hips and you hiss in anticipation.

You bite back a howl of lust as he enters you.

His thrusts are hard, demanding, but you are no less demanding as you buck against him, hips slapping together, a lewd rhythm that makes you want more.

“I love you so much,” you gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, and then you feel his aether.

You have been healed in the past, many times – you know what it means to be touched by someone's aether. But never before have you felt _this_.

His aether strokes against you, tangles with yours, and acting on pure instinct, you respond.

You yelp at the sudden flood of intense sensation – but it is obvious what has happened even as you cry out again. Aether touching aether, and pleasure flows between both of you – you can feel his cock inside of you, from his perspective just the same as from your own.

It is dizzying, astonishing, overwhelming.

But somehow, it is not quite _enough_.

Once more acting on instinct, you reach for him, deeper, and that's when you realize that he is _wearing_ something.

You know what sex toys are. You have even sampled one or two of Nero tol Scaeva's more _inventive_ designs, and you can recall seeing plans for even more outrageous devices on his desk. That had been a most – _educational_ night.

The thing the Exarch wears is to those devices as a finely wrought vase is to a common pitcher in a cheap tavern.

The notion that he's been wandering around Kholusia for who knows how long, with _this thing_ up his...

You are both amused and immensely turned on.

When you comprehend that the device responds to _aether_ , though your mouth is open and crying out in rising pleasure, there's a huge smile in your mind.

You braid your aether around the device, and clench down on it, just the same way you might clench the muscles of your sex onto a cock.

To your delight, now it is Raha who yelps and groans in abject pleasure.

Aether thrums between and around you both. Even the dust on the ground begins to lift up, as power emanates outward from your body. You can feel your hair lifting as if lightning is about to strike you.

But _this_ time, you do not allow the power inside you to strike at random.

Your understanding of aether and its various effects is hardly comprehensive. But you do know that aether, like lightning, can be redirected – and now you make use of that. The device resting inside your beloved's body has a thin line leading away from it, a line that seems to sink into the ground.

You funnel the burgeoning power into that line, willing it away from your body, from Raha's body, wanting only to chase pleasure, not _catch anyone on fire this time dammit_ –

And then like a lightning strike, everything flashes.

You scream aloud.

Raha shouts, and his hips slam into yours, his cock spurting and spewing, emptying into you.

And all that energy that might have burst into flames is harmlessly shunted away, down into the earth.

The orgasm fades, faster than you might wish, but you are too relieved that you have not hurt Raha this time to really complain.

You sag, head down, gasping for air, and moan softly as Raha withdraws from you.

He is shaking badly as he gathers you up, and hugs you close.

“Gods, I love you,” you whisper, as you curl your arms around his neck and wearily rest against him. "Never leave me again."


	58. Let the Flames Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Hades knew he was dreaming.

The world around him was indistinct, out of focus, and oddly gray.

But the woman in his arms was vibrant and warm. Scarlet hair flowed over his hands and down her back, softer than silk, carrying a scent of rosemary. Her mouth on his was sweet, her hands stroking him with quiet urgency through his robes.

 _Persephone_.

He knew he was dreaming. He did not care.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, then tugged at her robes, which obligingly vanished, revealing ivory skin. He skimmed his mouth down her throat as she purred in pleasure. He kissed the spattering of pale-gold freckles along her shoulders, traced her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. A gold chain circled her neck, and a pendant – a flawless ruby in the shape of a pomegranate seed. Hades tongued the hollow of her throat, then mouthed the gemstone for an instant.

“My beloved,” he whispered as he released the stone to nestle against her skin once more.

His own robes had dissipated into nothingness, and her fingers wrapped around his manhood, gentle and yet inescapable. “My architect,” she murmured. “I've missed you...” Ruby lips curved, wicked and sensuous. “I've missed your _tower_.”

“You have the filthiest mind,” he chuckled. Then he gasped as she stroked him deftly. Her touch had always been able to inflame him with preternatural speed...

“I don't want to wait, Hades my love.”

They were lying together on their bed now, satin sheets sliding against silken skin.

“I didn't want to be gone so damned long,” she whispered. “My body has forgotten...”

“Then I shall teach you again, my dear.”

“Teach me, yes, mmmm...” she arched into him. “Take me, Hades. Make me yours, one more time.”

He groaned, and bent his head to her. But she tugged at him, impatient, whining. Her legs twined around him and she brought him close.

“Now,” she hissed. “Fuck me until I see _stars_ , Hades...please!”

He had never been able to resist his Persephone, when she became so demanding.

He plunged inside of her, and she clutched at him, giving a little shriek of delight.

“I missed you too,” he panted, his face buried against her neck. “I wish you wouldn't leave so often.”

“It's my job – _hah_ – you know I have to go where the trouble is. Just like you have to stay here – _oh_ yes, I like that, Hades! – and make sure any trouble inside Amaurot is well taken care of.”

He did not answer. He knew she was right. He simply hated the situation.

He chased away the pain the same way he always had, by pursuing her pleasure.

He fucked her hard, just the way he knew she liked it best, twining his fingers with hers, nipping that gorgeous ivory skin. Her aether tangled into his, until he felt as if she would surely pierce him through and tear him apart with loving. Their bodies sweated, their souls _sang_...

Emet-Selch woke with a gasp, his cock rock-hard, and then immediately groaned.

_What in Zodiark's name is this?_

He twisted in the blankets, pawing for the little device. Had he somehow turned the damn thing on in his sleep? There was no way the Exarch had manipulated the controls, the device didn't _work_ that way...

He groaned again, pleasure spiking through him. The brush of the blankets against his raging erection nearly made him lose control. He growled and finally found the little black oblong.

He stared at it, panting, eyes wide with disbelief.

It was off.

_That's not possible –_

“UNGH!”

His body star-fished, mouth open, limbs sprawled, cock pointing to the ceiling. Muscles strained as he choked on another cry of raw, shocked pleasure. His aether was being assaulted by pure ecstasy –

_Where is it coming from?!_

He climaxed, helpless, moaning, all rational thoughts swept away on a final wave of delight.

“Gods, I love you...” a voice whispered into his soul.

A voice he _knew_.

“Never leave me again...”

Hades turned on his side, every part of him overwrought and limp, and clutched his pillow.

_Never leave me._

The words sizzled across his brain like acid: words _he_ had said, as he pleaded with his beloved so very long ago. His own words, thrown back in his face now. The Warrior had spoken those words – to the Exarch. Not to _him:_ not to Emet-Selch, and certainly not to Hades.

For the first time in twelve thousand years, he found himself sobbing. The pain, the bitter regret, had not softened in all those eons.

He spoke against his pillow, into the darkness. His voice was ragged, harsh, the words leaving his throat with a sensation as if he had gargled glass shards.

“No, Persephone...no. _You left me first_.”


	59. Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

Emet-Selch strode along the path that led upwards and ever upwards. He had to give the mortals credit for ingenuity and sheer, insane obstinacy. They had pulled off their mad plan, had constructed a rough-looking but fully functional Talos of truly titanic proportions...and now their vaunted Warrior of Darkness had access to Vauthry's last-resort lair.

His monstrosity had called on every sin eater he could reach – given the recent plummeting in their numbers, most likely every sin eater on the continent. Clouds of lesser eaters flocked here and there, yards away from the path itself – beset by hordes of pixies, they were useless as far as any attack on the woman making her way towards the mountain top.

Emet-Selch stepped off the path entirely, taking to the air, and flew alongside the path, searching for his quarry.

He caught sight of her just as she dealt the killing blow to one of Vauthry's greater sin eaters.

Her companions paused, only long enough to catch their breath; he watched as she waved them away, heard her tell them to leave her alone for a moment.

And leave her they did.

He descended.

She leaned against the rock face, hands splayed, forehead touching the stone, breathing slowly as if counting each inhalation.

He could see the Light jittering along her skin. She was fighting to contain it.

“Enough Light to chew you up and spit out the pieces,” the Exarch had said.

_Not quite._

He approached her, feet not touching the ground until he was directly behind her.

She went stiff as she felt his robes touch her, muscles tensed as he leaned into her.

“Get the fuck off of me, you bastard.”

He let his own personal darkness flow over her, very gently, knowing exactly what it would do. He smiled slightly in satisfaction when he heard her gasp, and saw how her skin pebbled. His shadow cooled the overheated Light inside of her, quieted its raging, soothed her on a level nothing and no one else possibly could.

“Is that any way to speak to someone who merely wishes to offer you succor?” he murmured into her ear.

“You hate me. I hate you. What twisted deal do you think to tempt me with this time, Ascian?”

“There will be no deal,” he told her. He inhaled, slowly, taking in her scent; even as he did, he slid his hands along her arms and covered her hands with his own. He pressed closer, angling his head so that he could press his lips against the curve of her neck.

She smelled of rosemary and clean sweat, and her body trembled against his.

“Stop touching me.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“...that's not the point. Let go of me. I don't want you anywhere near me.”

“Allow me to prove you wrong.”

Before she could do more than draw an outraged breath, he flung his aether around her like a voluminous cloak.

His body still touched hers only lightly, his hands over hers but not clasping, his mouth resting against her skin but not yet kissing her.

Through his aether, his soul spoke to hers, and her soul _answered_.

His eyes squeezed shut, and his breath caught painfully in his chest.

“Persephone,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

She turned in his arms, back now pressing against the stone, eyes wide. “No.”

But her voice shook. He opened his eyes to meet hers, and watched as something inside of her changed.

“Is it really you in there, Persephone?”

“Who the _fuck_ are you talking to?”

Emet-Selch bit his lip. He could _feel_ her...and yet...

He leaned closer, and took her mouth with his. A slow, torrid kiss: his lips asked the same question his aether did, his tongue sought hers just as his soul sought to touch hers.

For an instant she melted in his arms, a soft moan escaping her as her fingers grasped his robes.

For an instant, her soul chimed against his, recognized him.

_Crack!_

Emet-Selch's cheek ached, and he knew a hand-print was forming on the pale skin. He leaned back, looking into the Warrior's face.

Her eyes were narrowed, her teeth bared in a grimace of fury.

“I said,” she snarled, “Don't. Fucking. _Touch_. Me.”

“I know you,” he began, but his words were cut off as her knee went into his gut.

He had time only to exhale in pained surprise before he felt sharp cold steel against the back of his neck.

“Unhand her, Ascian. This instant.” Thancred's voice was colder than the blade against Emet-Selch's flesh.

“I have done her no harm. Are you so blinded by hatred for Lahabrea that you cannot see what is in front of your face?”

With a shimmer of power, Emet-Selch faded out, and back in, so that he now stood behind the gun-breaker. “Honestly,” he wheezed slightly, “All of you are little better than vicious savages.”

Against the rock wall, the Warrior covered her face with her hands, shaking visibly. A single sob broke free of her throat.

He never even saw the little Elezen – he had no chance to brace himself or to dodge. A brown-and-red comet slammed into his side, knocking him nearly off the edge of the path.

“Leave her alone!”

Alisaie's rapier came up, dangerously close to his eye.

He straightened up, and let out a loud, derisive snort. “Fools. Idiots.”

“You had best leave, Emet-Selch. Your presence is not wanted here.”

The other twin stood a bit away from them all, his book open in his hand, glaring in a manner that might have been intimidating – from a man. It was less so, from a stripling. Emet-Selch sneered.

“I can see that,” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If this is how you react when I do move to aid your precious Warrior, I am glad I did not do so before.”

All three of the Scions shifted, placing themselves between the Ascian and the Warrior.

“Get lost,” Alisaie suggested, her eyes all but throwing sparks.

Emet-Selch looked past them all as if they didn't exist. The Warrior had dropped her hands, and stared at him, eyes full of confusion and distress.

For one instant he wanted to apologize, to soothe her for true. To explain – the plead with her.

You left me first.

His mouth tightened.

“Go then,” he snapped at her. “Go, chase your death, and may you have joy of it.”

He turned away and stepped off the path into the empty air, letting himself appear to fall.


	60. Ultimate Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

The palace of white and gold shimmers; your watering eyes do not help. Everything feels coated in treacle, sticky and sickeningly sweet. The very air carries a cloying perfume as you heave for breath, kneeling on the golden floor. You cough, and glowing white fluid spills from your mouth to spatter and dissipate.

Your friends stand outside the circle of power that traps you.

Ryne is weeping softly into Urianger's side. Thancred is cursing quietly but continuously, and inventively too. Alphinaud's whispered prayers are offset by Alisaie's barely audible, strangled keen of fear, as she clings to her brother's arm. Y'Shtola is deadly silent, but her knuckles are white on her staff.

Your stomach heaves as you realize that you can _feel_ them. Feel their shock, their dismay, their fear. You can sense their aether, see it even, more clearly than the real world. Taste it...

They are afraid for you.

They are afraid _of_ you.

And their fear tastes so _sweet_...

No! _No!_

You pull your mind away from the threatening madness that circles you, and lift your head to look once more at the Exarch, standing before you. It is he who has sealed you both in the blue circle of power.

He has been speaking. You have been trying to listen. It is difficult, his words fade in and out. But you understand what he means to do.

He means to take the Light from you, and carry it into the Rift. It is a foolish plan. He will die; he will leave you all over again.

You bare your teeth at him, wishing you could do more than that.

He promised you that he would not leave you again.

He lied. He claims that he has been lying, all along, to you, to all the Scions. Manipulating you, guiding you along the path he chose, enacting the plans he laid, and now, his goal achieved, he will take what he wants of you and _leave_ you –

Your aether – your Light – beats against the barrier he has erected, fighting his manipulation of it. But slowly, inexorably, he pulls and pulls and pulls...

“Raha...” you pant.

“I know,” he murmurs, and you can somehow hear him even though he is so far away, “I know. Let it go, my love. Let me help you one last time.”

_ **CRACK!** _

Your eyes widen as you watch the Crystal Exarch fall.

Behind him, gun still extended, stands Emet-Selch.

You cannot understand the things the Ascian says, then. Your eyes are glued to Raha, your will tangled with fighting against the swelling Light.

When you lose consciousness, the last thing you hear is Emet-Selch's laughter.

Now, you lay in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The others have come and gone. Their faces are pale, worried, tense. Their words mean nothing. The Light waits inside of you, no longer a sleeping serpent.

Now it is a hooded eagle, barely leashed, waiting only for some fool to loose it, that it might fly free. You know that when it breaks out, it will turn you.

And when you turn, you will burn the First to ash.

Years ago, now, you had listened to Estinien Wyrmblood cry out, in despair, telling you and Alphinaud to kill him, that it was the only way to stop the monster inside him. You had scoffed then, called him a fool in your heart, utterly certain that your solution would work – and work it had.

But now, now you understand his words. You feel the bitterness in your bones, and you too wish that someone would slay you.

If only they could.

The others have not told the population of the Crystarium what has taken place. If they had, you might already have been placed on a pyre, burned at the stake to save the world.

Only Lyna knows what has happened to the Exarch, and to you.

Maybe she will come into your room here and slit your throat. She is surely furious with you, you saw it in her eyes when she was here an hour ago in the company of the Scions.

But she had left without offering a single hint of violence or a word of recrimination.

The others are scurrying about seeking solutions, some way to ease your suffering, some way to mitigate the damage done. Searching for what has happened to the Exarch, where he has been taken, where the Ascian is, so that you may take the fight to them.

But you do not care about their scurrying.

You can recall, faintly, how Emet-Selch had told you to find him in the Tempest. How he had claimed he would offer you dignity, would ease your pain.

You know he has Raha. You know where he is.

You _know_ what has happened.

 _Emet-Selch has taken the Exarch for his own_.


	61. Music of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch

“Now, you are mine.”

Emet-Selch paced around the metal table, examining the still form of the Exarch in minute detail. He was fully capable of healing the bullet wound – and had done – but he kept the scarlet-haired mage asleep.

He had removed the silk robes and tossed them in a bin, and now he prowled around the inert form of his captive, memorizing every single place that damned Warrior had bitten or sucked or scratched. Every mark would be paid for...in full.

He had promised her dignity, and she would have it.

After he had taken his revenge.

Examination concluded, he stopped, and placed his hands on the Exarch's head, fingers vanishing into the plush red hair.

His aether wound inwards, following the paths he had so painstakingly carved into the denseness of the Exarch's soul. Every kiss they had shared, every caress, had worn away at the Exarch's defenses. Every tear shed, every time he had penetrated into that sweet warmth – every time he had allowed the Exarch to enter his body – every encounter had been as drops of water along a block of ice.

He had diligently adored his lover.

Now, his lover's mind was open to him.

Now...at last, he would make his beloved smile.

And that woman – that harpy, that had dared to make him doubt himself even for a moment – would pay for her transgressions with her tears, and her pain, and then with her soul.


	62. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch and Emet-Selch

G'raha opened his eyes, and groaned softly. “Oh, my head...” He set one hand over his eyes, and groaned again.

“Ah, you're awake, good.”

A weight settled onto the mattress beside him, and the scarlet-haired man moved his hand to look at the one sitting there.

Hades smiled. “You had a little too much of that wine last night, love.”

“I don't remember any wine.”

“What do you remember?”

G'raha frowned. “I...” His head twinged, and he winced. “I think I remember you telling me that your new project had gotten approval. And then...dinner...and...oh.”

Hades' smile widened. “Yes. Oh.” He reached out and gently stroked G'raha's hair. “Come on, dear heart. You'll feel better after a good shower.”

“All right.”

His head was spinning, and he leaned on Hades as the two of them made their way to the bathroom.

“You're so wobbly,” Hades muttered, concern creasing his brows. “I'd better get in with you.”

“You just want an excuse to get your hands on me,” Raha mumbled.

“That, too,” Hades agreed easily.

But as the two of them stood in the shower under the hot spray, Hades was solicitous, rather than salacious – his hands were gentle and he took his time with helping Raha to wash. There was familiarity in his touch, and a sweet possessiveness that made Raha tingle all over. But he did not reach for the smaller man's cock, did not press against him, did not even make lewd remarks.

“Is everything all right?” Raha asked, as he dried himself after the shower was done.

“Yes. I suppose I'm just making sure you're all right. I didn't know that vintage would hit you so hard, my love.”

“If I drank too much, that's hardly your fault, Hades.”

“I still feel a touch guilty.”

“Well don't.”

“Are you hungry?”

Raha considered, then yawned. “No, but I'm tired again already.”

“That's all right. You know I can always go for a nap.”

They wandered back to the bed, and Raha let the towel fall to the floor, strutting the last few steps, tail swaying.

“I see you are indeed feeling a bit better,” Hades laughed. “And here you said you were tired.”

“We'll nap,” Raha said, then pulled Hades down onto the mattress. His mouth was hungry on the taller man's lips. “After I get done with you.”


	63. Cry Me a River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

You stand in the center of the street, and stare at Emet-Selch's city.

Amaurot...something about this place strikes a chord in you. You know this city, and yet you do not know _how_ you know it.

The others left you here, trying to find information, trying to find out anything they could, any clue that might lead to your salvation.

You no longer care about salvation.

You just want to find the Exarch.

You walk along the streets, and find your senses stretching out, in a way you do not quite understand. You do not need to understand how it is happening. Only that you can feel the Exarch, and that like a piece of iron to a lodestone, you _must_ follow that pull.

Hours pass, and you leave the wide streets for narrower avenues, and taller buildings, until at last, you pause. Here. You look around, eyes aching. The building here has a sign, in script you cannot recognize. But the glass doors open as you approach.

You step inside.

“Apartment 21G.” The plate on the door is quite easy to read from several feet away. It has no meaning for you. You stand before this door, because your senses say the Exarch lies behind it.

You raise your hand, and knock.

The door opens wide.

Emet-Selch smirks at you, and gestures you to come inside. “Took you long enough, hero.”


	64. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch and Emet-Selch

The apartment was quiet, and dim. Raha lay in the bed, sprawled half on his belly, and Hades leaned on one arm and softly stroked his love's plush scarlet hair.

“I had the strangest dream,” Raha mumbled into the pillow.

“Did you, now? What was strange about it?” Hades' voice held a lilt of amused affection.

“I dreamed I was locked up in some kind of tower, and there was a monster inside of it hunting for me. I kept running and running, and I was lost, but the monster was always just around the corner...” Raha's voice trailed off for a moment.

“That sounds fairly frightening.”

“I wasn't afraid, though, not really. I kept thinking that if I just found my way to the top of the tower, all would be well.”

“And did you find the top?”

“I did...there was a lot of light. But then I woke up.” Raha snorted, and then turned over, snuggling into Hades' chest. “No doubt just a strange dream brought on by too much wine.”

“No doubt.” Hades kissed the top of Raha's head and held him close.

Raha let his body stay lax, and made certain his ears and tail stayed relaxed as well. He dared not slip up, even a little. He must not let Emet-Selch know what was really going through his mind.

He could feel the changes the Ascian had wrought in him. He knew he had been asleep for many days. He knew himself a prisoner, however soft the chains might be.

Rage burned inside of him, quiet and dim but never far away, warming him more than the Ascian's embrace. But he did not yet unleash his anger, did not yet fight against his captor. He knew some – but not enough. Was his beloved Warrior perished? Had Emet-Selch allowed her to turn? Was she even now transformed into a sin eater, destroying everything they had worked to save?

He rather thought not, or Emet-Selch would be gloating, not attempting to create this illusion that the two of them were happily bonded.

His dream had indeed involved the Tower. But in it he had been moving from one room to another, searching high and low throughout the fortress of his own mind, discovering all the places where Emet-Selch had tried to brick up doors and disguise the contents of some rooms. Nothing destroyed: it was all additions and blockades. Tricky to bypass without destroying them.

Implanting memories, attempting to block the real memories...and attempting to subsume Raha's connection to the Tower, to replace the Tower's sustaining energy with his own. Clever, and not something that Raha would have thought his foe capable of doing. He felt as if his blood ran sluggishly, hot crimson replaced by cool shadow. He wasn't at all certain he could even use most of his abilities. But he was still himself. Still G'raha Tia, still the Crystal Exarch, and...

He knew now, with a clarity that hurt, that he did truly love the Warrior of Light and Darkness.

And he did not love Emet-Selch. Did not love Hades. Not any more.

But he must not let him know that. Not yet. He must find out first what remained of his plan, of the First, of his true beloved. And the only way he would find that information was by biding his time. Asking outright would only trigger a fight. He must lull Hades into believing his ploy had worked...

He bunted his head against Hades' chest, and summoned up a small, rumbling purr.

Hades shut his eyes as Raha began to purr. His hands stroked along his lover's back, sometimes drifting up to card through that wonderful hair, or scratch at the base of one ear.

It had taken days to lay in the new architecture within the Exarch's mind. He could have simply wiped away all memory, but that was a lazy and destructive way to accomplish the task. He wanted Raha to stay, but he did not want to harm him any more than absolutely necessary.

So he had carefully built walls and baffles around the things that needed to stay forgotten; had built paths around those blockages so that the mind could still reach back for memories before the Warrior had arrived. He had constructed painstakingly detailed false memories as well, that hung like tapestries across the barriers he had erected – impressions, illusions, that would whisper to Raha's mind and soul of happier times, of quiet dinners and lazy afternoons spent doing nothing much but talking or napping. Domestic memories, nothing dramatic, nothing to excite any urge for adventure. Just the simple pleasures of home and love and peace.

His beloved had slept a long time, long enough that Hades had become a little concerned. But he seemed fine, now, and so far the baffles were holding. If they broke, Hades would know...and he wasn't sure what he would do about it.

He truly admired Raha's resilience, his strong will. He was so much more than just a lover now. That was why he could not risk losing him. He needed him as he had not needed anyone for centuries.

He had been alone too long, had lost too much, and there was a trembling certainty deep inside of his soul that if he let go this time, he would be forever lost.

His belly twinged for an instant, last vestige of the bruises left him by the Warrior's attack. He grimaced to himself.

The bitch was alive, and as yet had not turned. He could feel her approaching Amaurot, however. She'd taken his bait as he had hoped she would.

He had decided how he would handle her.

First he would let her find out that her so-precious Exarch was, for all intents and purposes, gone.

He must make certain the good white wine was chilled and ready for her.

He would toast her determination, her effort, her truly heroic deeds...and then he would take her. He would collar her, humiliate her, debase her utterly.

Maybe he would even let Raha help.

And only then, when he had sated himself, would he finally soothe her into numbness and complete her transformation.

He let his eyes drift shut, imagining how she would look, white as marble, with gold claws and mighty wings. How she might look up at him, mouth open, his come staining gold lips.

She would be a glorious monster for him.


	65. Barely Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, alternating POV

It is a lovely dwelling. You notice it in passing, the same way you notice that Emet-Selch is wearing a black sweater and black pants of an odd cut – nothing like any clothes you have ever seen, but he seems comfortable.

“Where is he? Where is Raha?”

“Sleeping. You've shown up in the middle of night, you know.”

You stare at Emet-Selch. “Let him go.”

He laughs, a charming laugh, and takes down two elegant looking glasses from a cabinet. “You make it sound as if he is my _prisoner_.” The Ascian takes a bottle of wine out of a strange looking box. “Wine?”

“I want to see him.”

Emet-Selch raises one eyebrow. “Still a petulant child, I see.”

“Please.” You let the quiet desperation show. “Please. Let me see him.”

“And why should I do any such thing? Seeing you might upset him, and I do not care for that idea at all.” The cork pops; a brand new bottle, opened just for you.

You look at him helplessly. “What do you _want_ from me?”

“I told you, hero.” His smile is pleasantly cruel as he pours. The wine is white, and almost glows under the lights in the kitchen. It makes you think of what you've been coughing up in the last few hours. “Become a monster for me. Complete the transformation to sin eater. I can even make certain it doesn't hurt.”

“I'm not afraid of pain.”

“Liar.”

“You're a fine one to talk, you damned Ascian.” The simmering rage heats your blood.

“Yes, I am.” He raises one elegant eyebrow. “I have never once lied to you, dear hero.”

“Why did you try to rape me?” The words take you by surprise, but Emet-Selch seems unfazed.

“That was not a rape attempt. Though I concede it may have seemed so to you at the time. I apologize for that.” He offers you the wine.

You blink at him. An apology, from an Ascian – from _this_ Ascian? A week ago, you would never have believed him.

A week ago, you were still human.

You accept the wine, and then stare at him for a long moment as you recall that moment on the mountainside. How he had touched you. How he had kissed you.

“Who is Persephone?”

His mouth twists a little. He pours himself a glass of wine, and sips.

“Do you remember nothing, then? Even after seeing our city?”

You blink again. “Our. City.”

Something inside you shivers, and a name rises from the depths of your mind. Your aether trembles, and the presence that has haunted the back of your head for two weeks becomes a steady pressure behind your eyes.

“Are you saying I'm an Ascian.” Your tone is flat.

“Not precisely. The memories are beginning to stir in you now, I see.”

“I don't understand any of this. I don't want to. None of it will save the First, or the Source. That's all I was supposed to be doing here, saving the world like always...” You stop yourself, hearing the edge of a whine in your own voice.

Emet-Selch sets aside his glass of wine and approaches you, stopping just out of arm's reach. “I have been alive a very, very long time, even as we Ascians reckon time,” he tells you. “But I had a life before the Sundering, as well. Before Hydaelyn ruined everything. Before Zodiark, even.”

His eyes fix on yours. “And so did you.”

Your hand tightens its grip on the glass in your hand. “What are you talking about?”

*

Hades reached for her with his aether.

This time, she reached back, tangled with him, twining around him. Their bodies remained apart, but his essence swirled around hers, and the physical world faded away.

Gray fog replaced the apartment, and they floated in nothingness, facing each other, drifting closer and closer.

“I...remember this place.” Her voice was small, breathless. “The city. The little park, the lily pond...”

“Your favorite place to spend a rest day. I remember it well. I recreated it here, you know.”

He allowed his form to shift, taking on some of the properties of his Amaurotine self, though he left the mask off. Her aether shimmered in response, her clothing transmuting into a long black robe as well.

“I – I – Hades...?”

Her hair seemed to writhe, becoming longer, redder.

“Persephone.”

“Th-that's not my name.” She swallowed hard. “Not anymore.”

“It is who you are,” he answered. “It is who you have always been. Pieces of you, joined together in every successful Rejoining we Ascians have performed. You are half the person you used to be...but you are still recognizable. To me.”

“That's not...not right.”

“Do you remember me, Persephone?”

He was close to her, now, so very close.

“Do you remember what we were to each other?”

Lashes fluttered, but she could not escape his gaze. “...yes.”

He leaned in the last inch needed, and pressed his lips to hers.

They ignited.

The Light within her flared, but he contained it within his Darkness. It was not _effortless_ – but she was no attacking him, merely losing control, energy surrounding her like the corona of the sun.

He wrapped her in a shell of power and kept kissing her, hands cupping her cheeks, accepting the pain as the Light singed him, scorched him.

Abruptly the flames subsided, coiling inwards to roil just beneath her skin. Active, but actively contained. Her hands were in his hair, her mouth hungry on his, and he knew.

“My love.”

“My architect.”

He opened his eyes, and felt the tears stinging.

The face he looked on was an uncanny amalgam of the features he recalled so well, and the face of the Warrior that his beloved currently wore.

“I am not just a garment, Hades. This is who I am.”

“You are yet incomplete.” The tears streaked his cheeks. “Not...not real.”

“I'm real.” She frowned. The expression seemed to make her face melt, but then it solidified again, as her psyche re-stabilized. “You have murdered millions trying to get me back. It's ridiculous. As ridiculous as the Convocation's half-assed plan to summon Zodiark in the first place.”

“It was the only way – ”

“That's what you said then, and I'm not arguing with you about it now.” She pulled him in. “I am right _here_ , right _now_ , with you. Am I not enough for you?”

“You are nothing like my Persephone,” he muttered.

“That's right.” Her voice snapped and the flames beneath her skin began to rise, burning him again. “ _I am not your Persephone_. I am me, myself, my own person! I do remember you, Hades. But you don't see me as I am, you only see me the way you want to remember me. You love a ghost.”

“I just...” Hades sighed, tugging himself free. “You're so close to being complete again. If you loved me, you would help me...”

“Love?” The fires grew in strength and he grunted at the pressure on his own aether. “Is this _love?_ You've tried to kill me, Hades!”

“ _I just wanted you back!_ ” His heart felt as if it might crack the same as his voice did. “I _need_ you, Persephone! I need your love, I've done all of this for _you_ – ”

“You want my love?” Her face and body were no longer a mixture of features. She looked like the adventurer again, no trace left of his beloved. “Then see the person I am right now. Stop looking for _Persephone_ , and see _Rosemary!_ ”

“And if I don't? If I won't? What if I can't? Then what?”

For one instant he thought perhaps she would try to incinerate him.

*

You feel the fires inside of you, you know what the Light wants, and it takes every speck of your willpower not to strike out at him.

The personality inside your mind does not want to kill Emet-Selch – no, no, Hades.

For now, you agree. There are too many questions he must answer, too many things left unfinished. You do not want him dead.

Yet.

With a ragged gasp you force yourself back into your body, away from that strange place between worlds where only aether can go.

Whatever else has happened, this strange awakening within your soul has brought more than just confusion and a small, extra inner voice. You find yourself capable of truly controlling the Light within, and you no longer feel completely enervated by the struggle to contain it. You are not _quite_ yourself: but you are closer to normal than you have been for weeks.

Panting with effort, you set down your wine glass, and focus your gaze on the golden eyes that watch your every move.

“I just...want...Raha.”

He pouts. “Oh, very well. If you insist.”

Emet-Selch sets down the bottle of wine, and steps across the apartment, through a door. There is quiet speaking, and a sleepy sounding murmur, then, “All right.”

“He will be out shortly,” Emet-Selch tells you, and then takes up his wine glass, and sips once more. The silence between you is brittle.

*

Raha got dressed. A distant part of his mind appreciated how thorough Hades had been in his attempt to over-write the Exarch's mind. None of the clothing seemed bizarre to him, despite the fact that he was well aware no clothing like this ever existed in the Allagan Empire or in Eorzea, nor even in Garlemald. It was truly impressive that his captor had paid such exquisite attention to tiny details, in creating what was meant to be Raha's new reality.

Too bad for him that he failed to understand the true nature of what he had caught in his web of lies.

He took a few deep breaths, before opening the bedroom door. _She is here_ , his heart whispered. He reminded himself that he must act calm, natural – natural to the way _Hades_ expected him to act.

He steeled himself for the pain he was about to inflict on her, and on himself. But he would only get one chance to undo Hades' plans, and he had to preserve the illusion that his memory had been altered for as long as possible.

He stepped out into the main room of the apartment.

*

You watch the doorway, exquisitely nervous. When Raha appears, your breath stops for a long moment.

He is dressed much the same as Emet-Selch, all in black. His ruby eyes are sleepy, his hair mussed, and he looks far too adorable.

“Hello,” he says to you. “And you are?”

The voice in your head – the part of your soul that has awakened – Persephone – speaks to you. “Hades, you desperate, foolish man. You _stole his memories_...?”

You can only stare, wide eyed, horrified. The miqote eyes you, and edges past you to join Emet-Selch at the kitchen counter. When he slides his arms around the taller man's waist, you make a strangled sound of dismay.

“What seems to be the trouble, hero?” Emet-Selch grins, not kindly.

“What have you done, Hades?”

“I?” The Ascian's smile widens. “Nothing. Nothing except to make dear, _dear_ Raha happy at last.” He tilts his head down at Raha and kisses the top of his head. “Aren't you happy, my love?”

“Of course I am.” Raha gazes at you, ruby eyes calm and curious. “I am not acquainted with this person, dear heart. Why do you not introduce us? You're always so rude.”

Emet-Selch laughs.

The voice inside you curses.

It's all too much. You turn on your heel, open the door, and run.


	66. Dies Irae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exarch and Emet-Selch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a spot of what can probably be called domestic violence

G'raha Tia stared at the open apartment door. The sound of Hades' laughter grated on him, even more than it had when the man had mocked his Warrior in the orchard.

His resolve broke. _To the seventh hell with finding out anything more from the damned Ascian, I have to go after her._

He started towards the door, but Emet-Selch beat him there, slamming the door shut and putting his back up against it. “And where do you think you are going?”

“I'm going after her.”

“No. You aren't.”

“Get out of my way, Hades.”

Hades stared at his lover, and something deep inside him quaked, then cracked. No. No, this could not be happening. He had wrought too carefully, suffered too much, he could not lose them _both!_ Fear sparked rage and his mouth twisted. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

“I _forbid_ you to leave this place.”

Then he grabbed Raha by the arms, and brought his mouth down on him. Dark, sweet aether swirled all around them both, before slithering inward.

G'raha's own aether writhed, burning bright and blue-white, and smashed into the Ascian's energy, forcing it away. No more would he answer that siren call. He _would_ have his freedom, and he would have it _now!_

Hades staggered back against the door as G'raha shoved him.

“I love her! You cannot keep me from her!”

“And what of me? What of us?” Emet-Selch's eyes were wet, his face red, his carefully maintained composure cast aside. He tore at his hair as he shouted at G'raha. “Does my love mean nothing to you?!”

“Your love? What _love?_ ” G'raha shouted right back. “You have seduced me, used me, tried to change me into a puppet for your enjoyment – _you bloody damn_ _ **shot**_ _me!_ ” He spat at Emet-Selch's feet. “You act as if you own me, like I am naught but a shiny new toy! I have had enough of what you call love, Ascian.” His voice dropped to a rumbling growl, as deep as Hades' own. “ _Now get out of my way!_ ”

“I will not let you go so easily. You are mine!”

G'raha barreled towards Hades, trying to tackle him and shove him away from the door. Hades responded by grabbing the smaller man and using his own momentum, guiding him to crash into the wall. Stunned, Raha went to his knees. A picture hanging on the wall was rattled loose from its hanger and plummeted the ground. The glass shattered with a crack, and shards struck Raha in the face.

“Don't make me do this, Raha! Just forget the woman,” Hades snarled.

“I can't forget her.” G'raha picked himself up off the floor and wiped at his cheek. Bright scarlet streaks of blood smeared across his pale cheek. Scowling, he got in Hades' face. “You couldn't either, you bloody hypocrite. Or did you think that I did not know what you tried to do to her? Do you believe me so blind?”

“You certainly seemed blind, the way you carried on panting after her,” Hades spat. “Did you somehow miss the fact that she couldn't keep her legs closed of an evening, or were you so desperate for her that you didn't care if she fucked every person in the Crystarium?”

G'raha punched the Ascian in the mouth. “Don't you dare say such things about her!”

Taken by surprise, Hades staggered away from the door, and G'raha lunged for the doorknob.

He yelped and yanked his hand back as the metal knob glowed dull red, burning him. No sooner had he fallen back, than vines sprang out of the door-frame, covering the door in an instant with noxious smelling greenery covered in finger-long thorns that gleamed with a promise of poison.

G'raha whipped around to see Hades standing near the kitchen counter, rubbing his jaw.

“Damn you, let me go!”

 _“NO!”_ Hades grabbed the glass of wine that the Warrior had held but never sipped from, and threw it towards the scarlet-haired mage. G'raha dodged it, and it broke against the vines behind him, spilling the wine on its way. The drops clung to G'raha's sweater like tears.

“I _will not_ lose you, Raha,” Hades sobbed, his knuckles white as he clutched the edge of the counter.

“You lost me when you tried to meddle with my mind, Ascian.”

Hades' eyes widened and he choked on his sobs.

“Did you really think I would not notice what you had done?” G'raha's tone was quiet now, deadly quiet. His eyes blazed with fury, his lips curled in a disgusted sneer. “You tried to take away my _memories_ , Hades. All to force me to stay with you? Did you doubt me so very much that you could not simply ask me to live with you?” He made a gesture – the filthiest Garlean hand symbol he knew. “No, instead you had to force everything – you tried to rape my mind, you shot me, you stole me and then tried to change everything about me. You never loved me at all, did you?”

“That's not – damn you, Raha, that's not how it is at all!”

“You planned to use me,” G'raha snapped. “You wanted _me_ to break Rosemary's heart, you wanted her to believe I had forgotten her. You wanted my body, but you cared not one whit about the rest of me – and you never gave a damn about what _I_ wanted!”

“Stop! _Stop it!_ ” Hades threw the half empty wineglass this time, but G'raha dodged it and came at the Ascian, hands crooked into claws. He grabbed Hades by his sweater and shook him.

“You Ascians all think you have such grand plans, such flawless schemes,” he growled. “Well your plan has failed, Hades – I am not in love with you. I never was.” His smile was ugly. “You may never lie. But that's what I _do_ , Hades. It's all I've done for a hundred years.”

“I am sure _she_ knows that, too,” Hades' voice shook, but his eyes were just as angry as Raha's. “Do you think you can run after her now and proclaim love to her and have her believe you?”

The smaller man sucked in a breath, his grip loosening, and Hades shoved G'raha away. The force of their motions knocked the wine bottle to the floor, where it shattered spectacularly, shards of glass spraying, wine splattering everywhere.

“You lied to her as well,” Hades whispered. His eyes still streamed tears, but he showed G'raha his teeth. “She will never truly believe a single word you say, after what you did to her. You broke every promise you ever made, you hurt her friends, and now? Now she will _never_ forgive you, never take you back.”

“That's for me to worry about,” G'raha retorted, but he looked queasy.

Hades advanced on the smaller man. “Stay with me,” he murmured. “Don't go, Raha. I shared everything I have with you, everything I am. I may have made some ill-advised decisions, I can admit that.” He tried to touch that scarlet hair, but G'raha flinched away from him. He dropped his hand, and curled it into a fist.

“I was afraid, Raha. I was wrong. But she...” He shook his head. “She doesn't love you the way I do.”

“You don't know a damn thing about how she feels.”

“Oh, I can believe that she places some small value on you,” Hades said. “But you are nothing _special_ , not for her. You'll be nothing to her but another horse in her stable, Raha.” He stretched out his other hand, offering it towards the scarlet-haired mage. “I would make you the center of my life.”

G'raha snorted, a derisive noise. “You would enslave me and take away all that makes me who I am, Hades. You have already tipped your hand.” He tilted his head, his ears back and his tail lashing despite his mild tone of voice. “Tell me, do you always fail this way?”

Hades flinched.

“No wonder everyone has left you all alone. Even your fellow Ascians do not come to your aid, I notice...can it be because even _they_ find you repulsive?”

Hades' hand dropped and his voice, though still quiet, was full of venom. “At least the ones I loved and lost in the past actually loved me in return.”

“Are you sure?” Raha's lips curled in another sneer. “You cannot keep me here forever, Hades.”

“I don't have to try to keep you here forever,” Hades growled. “Just until that woman is gone for good.”

“She will not turn,” G'raha shook his head. “She will never become your pet.” His chin lifted then. “And neither will I. You do not have me, Hades, you never did, and you cannot change that.”

Without warning, Hades swung.

His fist impacted on G'raha's cheek and knocked the smaller man to the floor. Dark aether coiled and pinned the scarlet-haired mage to the floor, digging into his flesh. When G'raha tried to struggle, the dark bindings grew thorns, and he cried out, then grew still, panting, tears dropping onto the carpet.

Hades' clothing transmuted into the robes of an Ascian, and his sigil glowed over his face. All softness was gone, all humor, even the rage had vanished.

Emet-Selch stood over him, scowling. “This is all her fault.” His voice was icy calm, now. “She ruins everything she touches. I have had enough of her and her interference. I will not suffer her presence in my city any longer.” He stepped to the door, dismissing the vines, and opened it. Without looking back he said, “It is time for the Warrior of Light and Darkness to exit this stage. _Permanently_.”

He slammed the door shut, and the sound covered G'raha's sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specifically the "song" for this one is the Dies Irae from Mozart's Requiem, K626


	67. Say Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

Alphinaud's voice shakes you out of your dazed state.

“Rosemary! There you are! What are you doing, wandering about like this?” But the moment he comes close enough to you to see your face, his brows furrow in real worry. “What happened to you?”

He tugs at your hand, and you let him lead you, as if he is the older of the pair of you.

When he brings you back to the place where the rest of the Scions have gathered, there is a small flurry of questions, but you barely register anything they say.

The scene in the apartment replays in your head, over and over. The way Raha had looked at you, the emptiness in his gaze. The way Hades' laughter had chased you down the hallway all the way to the elevator.

You let the others talk, contributing nothing to the conversation, just standing there, listing to one side, eyes open but not really seeing anything at all.

Finally, Ryne yawns, and Thancred – solicitous of her as he always is – declares that everyone might as well get some rest.

A brief debate is held about this suggestion, but in the end everyone agrees. You still do not speak, but when they move off, Urianger's hand is on your elbow, and you obey his gentle urging.

They set up a rough camp of sorts, in the square where the elegant aetheryte floated. But you find yourself drifting over to the railing, staring over the edge into the mist that obscures the abyss below this strange, empty city.

A city as empty as your heart.

If you step over the railing...if you let yourself simply fall...

“Don't even think about it.”

You look over at Alisaie. She places her hand on your shoulder. “We can't understand everything you're suffering,” she said quietly. “But we are here for you. Do not abandon us.”

Her voice trembles on those words, and you are reminded of how she begged you not to leave her alone.

They need you. Not just the twins, not just the Scions, but all the people of two stars.

Your shoulders sag under the weight of it, and for one instant you understand Emet-Selch in some small way.

“Do you want to...to talk about it?” she offers, blue eyes looking up at you. She is so small, so young, and yet so very strong. But not strong enough, you fear, for the things roiling around in your skull.

“No.” Your voice is hoarse, and you try to soften your refusal with a small smile. “I appreciate what you're trying to do, Alisaie. I do. But I...” You swallow against a sudden urge to cry. “There is nothing to say.”

“Come back to the fire, at least,” she pleads.

So you let her take you back, to sit on your bedroll and stare blankly into a fire that does nothing to warm you.

The others lie down, one by one, and drop off into sleep. You can see the exhaustion in the twins and Ryne especially. The past weeks have been hard on everyone, but somehow it hurts you a little to see how the youngest of the Scions have pushed themselves to their limits, trying to save you.

If only you were worth such dedication.

At last, only Urianger remains awake.

He comes to sit beside you, his long fingers rubbing in small circles across your back, a soothing pattern.

“Thou art grieving, my friend.” His voice is soft, but there is a note underneath his words that tells you he will not take no for an answer. “Wilt thou not confide in one who hath kept thy secrets in the past?”

“I found him.” You can only whisper, but you know his keen ears will hear you. “I found the Exarch. He was under the Ascian's influence. He did not know me.”

Urianger makes a small sound of sympathy in his throat. He knows about you and the Exarch; he is the only Scion you could trust with such outrageous information, but you had needed to talk to _someone_ after the incident in the orchard.

He puts his arms around you, and tucks your head beneath his chin. You curl your arms up against your own chest and let him hold you. There is little comfort here for you, but it is better than nothing.

Without his prompting, you speak again.

“I would have followed him anywhere,” you murmur. “I...whatever else I know, I know that. If I could have, I would have grabbed him by his ears and dragged him out of there. But I couldn't...I ran away.”

“Again.”

“Again.” You sigh deeply, and press your face into Urianger's chest.

“Thinkest thou that he cannot 'scape the clutches of one such as Emet-Selch?”

“I don't know.” You sniffle, and cough once, trying to force away the tears.

“If I might offer thee some small encouragement...”

“You can try.”

“He cared for thee. Truly. With all his heart.”

You do not even ask how Urianger came to know such a thing, or even whether he is lying to you, as he has done in the past. The words destroy you regardless.

Quietly, hugging yourself and leaning into him, you begin to weep.


	68. Just Breathe / I Won't Give Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrior

A glowing hole goes straight through his body, but Hades seems quite untroubled by it. For one horrified instant you fear that even this was not enough.

He gazes at you, golden eyes clear and calm, and smiles a little. “I see now,” he says, with a small shake of his head. “How wrong I was.”

You can only stare back at him.

He seems not to expect you to know, and shakes his head a little. “I ask that you take good care of him, hero. He is a good man, and he deserves better...” His voice wobbles, and his form begins to disintegrate, little flecks of light wafting upward. He is coming apart, but slowly.

You reach towards him, regret stinging sudden and sharp as a papercut. You wish, for one instant, that there had been another way – any other way – but destruction of one or the other of you. Why must it always end in death?

“You made him happy,” you manage to say.

Hades smiles, a sad smile. “I would like to think so. Make him happier than I did.”

He bows his head, as if contemplating the hole in his body, then looks back up at you. “One thing more, Persephone... _Rosemary_.”

“What?”

“Remember us. Remember that we lived.”

“...we will. I swear it.”

A breeze seems to come out of nowhere, tossing your hair into your eyes, forcing you to squint and blink a little. When your vision clears – Hades is gone.

The light around you resembles dawn, now, where before it felt as if the phantom city was wrapped in dusk.

And standing not far away –

“G'raha!!”

He stands there, leaning heavily on his staff, his robes torn and burned and ragged, cuts and bruises showing on his Spoken arm and on his face. You run towards him, pulling up short, barely restraining yourself from hugging the breath out of him.

“Hello again,” he says, with a pained smile. “It is good to see you...”

“I thought you were lost to me,” you interrupt him. “I thought...I thought...”

He lifts his Spoken hand to cup your cheek. “Sh, sh. It's all right, my dear. It's all right.”

“Raha...” Tears run down your face. “G'raha Tia. Exarch. I love you, and I always will.”

Tears spring to his eyes in answer to yours, and his smile is wobbly.

“Such words as I never thought to hear again,” he whispers. “Oh, how I love you.”

Behind you, Y'Shtola speaks.

“This is all well and good, and I'm sure we are all very happy. But let us celebrate elsewhere. I, for one, have seen quite enough of this place.”

Raha's eyes crinkle up. His tears and laughter mingle with yours.

“Indeed,” he says at last. “Let us go home.”

You keep hold of his hand as the two of you follow the Scions.

Quietly, you murmur to him. “When we get back, I have a few more things to say to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Breathe by Pearl Jam  
> I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz


	69. I'm Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finale

Of course there is much yet to be done. Even just “going home” turns out to be trickier than planned. But you find yourself laughing, your step light even as you carry Alphinaud's unconscious body away from the beach. The young man will be just fine – nothing more than exhaustion has felled him, and even Alisaie is smiling quietly as you get him to drier ground and revive him.

Once he is walking on his own once more, there are amaro enough for everyone, and the whole lot of you fly back to the Crystarium through a sky filled with golden light – but not the suffocating, endless Light that had cursed Norvrandt for so long. This was merely the sweet, soft gold of lingering afternoon, and even as you make your way, the sun slides towards the horizon.

When you come in to land at the Crystarium, the sun is touching the Tower with its last rays, red and gold and orange, warming the blue in a final blaze before the tender twilight closes its arms around the land.

Lyna appears the instant you have landed, and dropping all pretense at dignity, she rushes forward and sweeps the Exarch into a rough, brief embrace. You are not sure quite what she mutters to him, but his ears wriggle for a moment before she lets him go.

Then to your shock, the imposing Captain turns to you, and grips you in an equally brief, but fervent, hug. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for bringing him home to us.”

You are speechless, but she does not appear to expect a reply when she lets you go. Instead, she hustles the Exarch away, fussing over him. Thancred watches the two of them go, and chuckles quietly.

“I believe all of us could do with a meal and a good solid night of sleep.”

“Feeling your age?” Alisaie teases, and a round of light banter starts up between the gun-breaker and the red mage, even as the Scions saunter off in a group, heading towards the Wandering Steps.

Urianger pauses, and turns back to you. He holds out his hand. “Come, my friend. We would all be gladdened by thy company, for an hour more.” The twinkle in his eye makes your cheeks warm just a little. He knows good and damn well that you'd rather go after the Exarch.

But, you remind yourself, there is no need to hurry. And food sounds very good – as it has not for weeks and weeks. So you nod, and take Urianger's hand.

Around the tables, the Scions smile and even laugh once or twice. Ghosts are dispelled in the glow of ale and lights, the damp cold of Amaurot becomes a distant memory in the warmth of the feast laid before you and the many smiles and pats on the back and well-wishes from every single patron in the Steps. It is not a giddy feeling, this warmth; it is a slower feeling, the hushed relief of settling down in front of one's home hearth after a long and trying journey. Peaceful. Grateful. Another night has fallen, another day will come.

The Scions are still trapped here on the First. Their souls must be reunited with their bodies, and you have no more notion how to accomplish that now than you did when Thancred first fell.

But for now – for tonight – they are content to rest, and so are you.

Each of them finds an excuse to come near and murmur to you, over refills of ale and offering second helpings and other such niceties.

Thancred is first, pausing beside you before he escorts a weary Ryne to her bed. He squeezes your shoulder, then leans in as if to press a kiss to your cheek.

“He makes you happy, and that's enough for me. I'm glad we were able to save him.”

And with that he is gone, leaving you blinking after him, mildly astonished.

Urianger leans over as you're still processing what Thancred said.

“Full glad am I, as well, that we rescued the Exarch. Mine gladness is only augmented the more by knowing that the two people whom I admireth most find themselves in such accord.”

Your eyes meet his, and he smiles, then turns his attention back to little Giott, who is earnestly telling him about some drunken theory or other.

You take a long drink of your ale, uncertain what to think of this. Not that you were looking for their approval – but the way they had offered it anyway made you feel strangely wobbly inside. Not quite like crying. Something else, something you weren't sure how to label.

Not fifteen minutes later, Y'Shtola drifts up to you as you're perusing the sweets that mysteriously appeared on an adjacent table.

“I have never been fond of a surfeit of sugar,” she muses. “I shall refrain from hugging the life out of you. But I will say one thing.” Her fingers are cool against your cheek, and her silver eyes gleam. “You are very good together, you and the Exarch. I can find no reason to object to your involvement...I ask only that you not keep us in the dark if anything changes. Yes?”

“Y-yes.” You can't manage more than that. She smiles, and pats your cheek one last time. Then, she is gone.

You glance around, mildly nervous now. You don't even want to think of what strangeness might come out of Alphinaud's mouth, should he decide to weigh in on this matter...

“The cheesecake is excellent,” a voice says at your elbow.

You pretend not to startle as you turn to see Alisaie. Her mouth curves in a sly smile, pleased with herself.

“Cheesecake, hm?” You try to keep your tone casual.

“Yes. The red berries are the sweetest, I think.” She tilts her head, and gives you a sideways glance.

You can't help it. “So do you have things to say about the Exarch, too?”

“I?” Alisaie strikes an aloof pose for an instant, then giggles. “Far be it from me to offer love advice to the Warrior of Light and Darkness.”

You roll your eyes, but you chuckle along with her.

Then her hand is on your arm, gently squeezing. “Go to him.”

You meet her eyes, and swallow at the look on her face. “Don't let _anything_ get between the two of you, and don't waste another minute if you can help it. We've got a breathing space. We don't know for how long.”

A glitter in her eye, and you are reminded of her grief for her fallen friend. You nod, unable to summon words for what is washing across your heart.

Then, the moment is over, and her lips twitch. “And if ever he hurts you, I'll stab him where it counts.”

You can't help a bark of laughter. “Alisaie!”

She smirks, and pats your arm, before grabbing another slice of cheesecake and sauntering back to sit down beside her brother.

You decide that this is the time to take her advice, and turn your steps towards the Pendants.

After all, it would not do to go see Raha as you are – still dirty from travel and combat, and likely smelling terrible; it has been long enough since your last real bath that your nose has given up on registering any scent at all.

You are thorough – but you do not linger over your shower. Less than half a bell has passed, before you are crossing the Exedra, in fresh clothes, hair still a bit damp.

You push down an odd case of nerves as you present yourself to the door guard. The man knows you well, and gives you a big grin as he lets you into the Tower.

You step through into the cool blue light of the Tower's corridors, and wonder why you are shaking – as if this is the first time you have ever been with the Exarch...with Raha.

He steps out of the Ocular as if he knew you were coming, meeting you with a smile.

All you can do for a moment is stare at him.

It is not until your face begins to ache that you realize you've been grinning like an idiot. But your smile surely matches the wide and silly grin on Raha's face, for he laughs at the same time you do, and then he is in your arms.

You simply hold each other tight for a few minutes, rocking together, giving and taking comfort, breathing in time with one another.

Then he lifts his head, and places a reverent kiss on your lips.

“Shall we to bed, my love?”

“Yes.”

With a smile, he teleports the two of you.

“Raha...are you sure you want to do this...?” Your voice is soft as you card your fingers through his hair, so sensuous and plush. You cannot imagine ever tiring of touching him. But you do not wish to merely take from him. For too long you have focused on what you wanted, what you needed. No more.

Raha looks up from adoring your nipple, and shifts himself upward in the bed. He smiles, and kisses you. “Of course I want to do this. Is something troubling you?”

You bite your lip, and gently stroke his face, just under the still-livid bruise on his cheekbone. “You're hurt,” you murmur. “And I would be surprised if you aren't exhausted.” You kiss the bruise, a feather-light touch. “We can take our time...”

“Are you tired?”

“I ought to be.” You kiss his lips. “But no. I'm not tired.”

His eyes glitter in the dim light. “We have a great deal of lost time to make up for.”

You shiver as he begins to mouth his way down your neck, and returns to worshiping your breasts. Both of you move slowly, savoring each touch, each kiss, each nibble and lick.

By the time you roll him onto his back and straddle him, you are already quivering and dripping wet. You tangle your fingers with his. He thrusts up into you, the sweetest smile on his lips, and you let out a long, low moan.

“Oh, how I love you,” Raha whispers.

Then you begin to bounce yourself on his cock.

Almost immediately you are shuddering with orgasm, but he does not let you go, does not let you down. That beautiful, glorious cock surges in and out of you, relentless as the tides, irresistible as the rising sun.

His hands clutch at your hips now, and he bites his lip, panting harshly. You toss your head as you begin to cry out.

“Oh - oh, _Raha_ \- oh _**fuck**_ \- Raha, Raha _please_ , Raha fuck me harder - !”

“I - _hah!_ \- ah, I love you - hhh - Rosemary, I'm - ” You shriek even as he groans, and explodes inside of you.

Transfixed on his cock, head back, eyes wide, you feel him – not only feel his body coming, you feel his aether. That ancient part of you, once called Persephone, no longer dormant, knows exactly what to do as he reaches for you with his energy.

Though your bodies both relax as your orgasms subside, your aether – your souls – intertwine. The sensation is utterly beyond any mortal words. Joined, the two of you soar like eagles in an endless summer sky.

When at last you drift back to reality, he is curled around you, his tail curving around your upper arm, stroking you every so often. His ears are limp as he rests his head on your shoulder, and your fingers are buried in his scarlet hair.

Raha sighs.

“What a fool I've been,” he murmurs. “Can you ever forgive me, my beloved Rosemary?”

“Sh.” You press your lips to the top of his head. “We both made mistakes, didn't we. We hurt each other, and ourselves.”

“Emet-Selch...”

“Hades didn't do this to us. He made his own mistakes, but...he's gone now.” Your sigh is full of regret. So many possibilities, snuffed out along with Hades' life force. Yet there had truly been no other way for him, or for you.

Raha leans back, his eyes searching your face. “Something happened, didn't it.”

“A lot happened.” You smooth his hair back a little. “Ask me again in a few weeks, love. I still need time to...process it all.”

“As you said,” he smiles softly, “we can take our time.”

You rest your head against his, and take a deep breath. “I need to...ask you something.”

His hands stroke your shoulder blades, his tail drifting down to lightly tap against your hip. “Never again will I keep the truth from you. Ask anything you like.”

“There's so much left to fix, so many things we'll have to figure out... It will be a while before we can really act on...” You force yourself not to babble. “I just want to know how you feel about it, first.”

You swallow hard. You are shaking badly.

“What do you mean, my love?”

“Raha...will you marry me?”

He seems to stop breathing for a moment.

Then he is kissing you, and weeping, and laughing all at once. You find yourself also laughing and crying at the same time, and you cling to each other, awkwardly, tangled in blankets and furs and each other.

But at last he calms. He presses you close, and leans his head on your shoulder, and whispers the most precious word you have ever heard in your life.

_“Yes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much, each and every one of you who came along for this wild and crazy ride!  
> There may be further adventures for G'raha and Rosemary, but they will not be in this fic. I couldn't NOT end it on this chapter number!

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired and enabled by  
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club  
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!  
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


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